


Like a Heartbeat Drives You Mad

by missparker



Category: The Closer
Genre: F/F, It's For a Case, Prompt Fill, Undercover As Gay, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 03:16:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4730837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missparker/pseuds/missparker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bad feeling in her chest, previously a flutter, now beats like a thud.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PotofCoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PotofCoffee/gifts), [cheekymonkey06](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheekymonkey06/gifts).



> Both [cheekymonkey06](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cheekymonkey06) and [potofcoffee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/potofcoffee) gave me a prompt that was Brenda/Sharon pretending to be a couple for a case. So here's the first chapter of that. TRY NOT TO PULL ON ANY THREADS as far as the "case" is concerned because things WILL unravel.

_It's only right that you should_  
_play the way you feel it_  
_but listen carefully to the sound_  
_of your loneliness_  
_like a heartbeat drives you mad_

**Dreams - Fleetwood Mac**

*

Brenda wakes up with a bad feeling in her chest. There’s no real reason for it, just a case of the grumps, maybe. Maybe she didn’t sleep well, though she doesn’t remember waking up much. Maybe she’s getting a summer cold, one of those chest things that she’ll have to live with for several weeks, one of those dry, hacking coughs that keeps everyone up at night. But she doesn’t feel sick, just bad. 

Like something bad is coming. 

Which is ridiculous. That is not a lifestyle she subscribes to. Paranoia and foreboding, events being out of her control and pre-determined.

Still, though. She knicks her knee in the shower and it bleeds and bleeds. The dress she’d put out for herself the night before goes back in the closet. A beige band-aid on her knee, khaki slacks and a wrap blouse instead. The moment she puts on her mascara, she sneezes and gives herself dark raccoon eyes and she’s got to wipe everything off and start over, which means she’s about ten minutes late for work. 

Usually that doesn’t mean much, but today when she hurries in, digging in her purse for the glasses she’ll later find hanging from her collar, Will Pope is already in her office, glancing between his wristwatch and the clock on the wall. 

“Shoot,” she says. The members of her division look sympathetic but stay silent. 

“Good morning, Will,” she says, more cheerful than she feels. “The traffic was a nightmare.”

No worse than yesterday, but it’s always bad so not technically a lie. Though she has no qualms about lying to Will Pope, either. She just likes to save up the whoppers for when she really needs them. 

Will says nothing. Just leans over her desk, picks up her phone and dials an internal extension. And then, “Can you send her down, please? Thanks.” And hangs up again. 

The bad feeling in her chest, previously a flutter, now beats like a thud. 

“You got a case for us?” she asks, walking around him, pulling out her chair and settling in despite his presence. She turns on her computer, reaches over and opens the blinds to let a little more light in. The only concession she makes is leaving her stash drawer closed. 

“Let’s just wait for everyone to arrive,” Will says. 

“Who is everyone?” she demands, flopping into her seat. Will keeps standing, but she does see a little crack in his calm facade. She knows him well, after all, and his top lip sweating means he’s nervous about something.

“I’d like for you to keep an open mind about this,” he says. “And try to remember that I’m asking you as a superior officer.”

“Oh lord,” she mutters.

“I’m your boss,” he reiterates. 

“That is not confidence inspiring,” she says, but that’s all she says because she can see them coming. Commander Taylor and Captain Raydor, walking toward her office.

“Here they come,” he says.

“Oh no, Will, no!” she whines. “Not her. Anyone but her!” 

“You don’t even know what we’re asking yet!” he exclaims. “Open mind, Brenda!”

He opens the door for them but she still doesn’t stand. Neither of them outrank her and she wouldn’t stand for Will if he was the actual Pope. Not with their history. So she faces Raydor today slumped in her office chair, glaring out from beneath a furrowed brow. Petulant, maybe, but at least it’s honest. 

“Good morning, Chiefs,” Raydor says, cold and polite. Brenda sits up just a smidge because it’s interesting. Either Raydor doesn’t know what this is about either, or she does and she doesn’t like it. Brenda can’t say she cares very much for Sharon Raydor, but she can no longer say she doesn’t know the woman or that she hasn’t spent enough time with her to catalog her tells. The corners of her mouth are turned down and she’s got her fingers searching for the pockets of her suit jacket. 

Will makes everyone sit down at Brenda’s conference table, even Brenda. He sits next to Taylor, so Brenda takes the seat to the left of the Captain and leans in.

“You ever feel like you’re bein’ called into the principal’s office?” she whispers loudly.

“Oh, that seems more like your past than mine, Chief Johnson,” Raydor says without looking at her. 

Taylor snorts back laughter and Brenda glares at him until he settles back down. 

“Let’s be completely honest here,” Will says. “The two of you working together is a struggle for you both.”

“Amen,” Brenda says. This time Raydor does look over at her, an arched brow to show her displeasure. 

“However, uncomfortable it may be,” Will barrels on, “When you do work together, you get results.”

Brenda opens her mouth to argue but finds that she can’t. It’s true. Certainly not because they’re well suited but because it becomes a sort of crazed competition, always trying to oneup one another. When Brenda’s mouth shuts again, Will looks over at Taylor.

“Robbery-Homicide and SIS have been working together for nearly a month, trying to bring down a kidnapping ring,” he says. 

Raydor nods. “They think the girls are being taken across the border.”

“Right,” Taylor says. “It’s a huge human trafficking ring and this is as close as we’ve gotten to catching them. A low level lackey in their organization has flipped and has been giving us information on pick up times and exchange locations, but the information is not the most reliable.”

“Why are you telling us and not the FBI?” Brenda asks. 

“We’ve only recently connected the rash of kidnapping to the trafficking ring in the first place,” Will says. “The FBI has their own investigation open, but we’re hoping to catch them in the act before turning them over to the feds.” 

“Get the glory and let them foot the bill,” Brenda says. Will just smiles blandly. 

“Why am I here?” Raydor asks slowly, coolly, as if everyone in the room is very slow witted. 

“The women being taken are diverse,” Will says. “Ages have ranged from teenagers to women in their fifties and sixties. White, black, hispanic, asian, poor, rich, educated, minimum wage workers, they run the gamut.”

“Jesus,” Brenda says looking at Taylor. “How many women have you lost?”

“There’s one thing that they do have in common,” Taylor says with a scowl. “They all identify as gay.”

“Or other,” Will jumps in. 

“Gay or other?” Brenda says.”What the hell does ‘or other’ mean?” She makes air quotes with her fingers. 

“Not heterosexual,” Will says. “Our informant says that his bosses think that those types of women won’t be as easily missed or sought after.” 

Raydor leans back, her chair creaking a little and looks hard at the men across from her. 

“And what is your plan to find these women?” she says softly. “These types of women who have been disappearing from under your very noses?”

“Once they cross the border, it’s up to the FBI to find them,” Will says. “But we’re putting together an operation to intercept the next planned kidnapping and we need female officers to go undercover. Experienced ones, ones who know what it is that they’re doing and won’t get hurt or get taken.”

Now Raydor turns to look at Brenda, both eyebrows high in the air. 

“You don’t mean us,” Brenda says.

“Chief Johnson, you’d be the point person on the inside, while Taylor is officially the operation’s commander,” Will says. “I want you and Sharon to work together, get your team of officers ready. We only have four days.”

“I’m not letting Taylor call the shots, I outrank him!” Brenda exclaims hotly. 

Taylor rolls his eyes and says, “I told you. Didn’t I tell you?” 

“Settle in,” Will says. “Complete briefing in my office in one hour.” 

Will leaves and Taylor doesn’t stick around either. Just Brenda and Captain Raydor, sitting on the same side of the table, unsure about what, exactly, had just happened to them.

“So,” Brenda says finally. “He’s ordering us to be lesbians?”

“Pretend lesbians,” Raydor says faintly.

“Together?” Brenda asks. 

“I feel that was the implication, yes,” Raydor says. 

“I just…” Brenda says. “I don’t recall this being in any training.” 

Raydor uses the armrests of her chair to push herself up and looks at Brenda. “I’m going to leave now.” 

“Yeah,” Brenda says. “See you in an hour, I guess.”

“I guess so,” Raydor says.

oooo

Their first assignment, Lieutenant Cooper explains, is to scout out the warehouse where the kidnapping is supposedly going to go down.

“It’s actually for sale,” Cooper says, pushing a realtor’s flyer across Will’s conference table. Brenda picks it up, holds it so Raydor can see it too. “We want you and Captain Raydor to pose as potential buyers so we can get a more detailed picture of the layout. We’ll have you fitted with cameras and microphones.”

“And if the owner is the one trafficking these women?” Raydor asks in that soft, deadly way that she has. It usually grinds Brenda’s gears to even hear it, but it’s actually very effective and Brenda can appreciate it now that it’s not aimed at her.

“Then you’ll hopefully be able to recognize him during the op.”

“Or he’ll recognize us,” Brenda says.

“My preference is for no one to get taken, but if it’s one of ours and not a civilian…” Cooper doesn’t finish the thought. 

“Who do you have for my team,” Brenda demands. Taylor opens his mouth to complain but Will shoots him a look and not so subtly shakes his head. Brenda feels a wave of pleasure - she’s going to win this round. 

“Micki Mendoza,” Cooper says. “She’s one of mine. We’re borrowing McGinnis and Sherman from SOB. Irene Daniels volunteered when she heard you were running the op, Chief Johnson.” 

“That’s very sweet, but I’m supposed to do this with me and five women?” she says, glancing at Taylor who is studiously studying the tabletop, his mouth a hard line. 

“And you’ll get ten uniforms who have basic op training just to be eyes and ears,” Will pipes in. 

Raydor makes a small noise of disbelief and Brenda knows exactly what she means. The fact that all the female detectives they can scrape together she can count on one hand, practically, is a larger, systemic problem, one she plans to bring up a lot more often now that she’s seen it up close and personal. She plans to rub Will’s nose in it over and over again. 

But for today, she’s going to play nice because the only thing she hates more than pompous Will and his handful of female cops is the idea of these poor women getting sold off as sex slaves. 

“The showing is tomorrow,” Cooper says. “I have a little information on the owners in these packets.” He slides them two folders. 

“Are we supposed to… have cover identities or…?” Raydor trails off uncertainly and it takes every ounce of willpower Brenda has not to roll her eyes.

“I’ll be Brenda,” Brenda says. “You be Sharon.”

Raydor glares.

“We find it’s easier not to slip up that way,” Cooper agrees. “Less lying, more truth omitting. Chief Johnson, Chief Pope tells me that you have plenty of experience working operations like this. I’m hoping you can get Captain Raydor up to speed by tomorrow?”

“I can,” she says. She looks over at Raydor. “Unless FID can’t spare you, Captain?”

“Oh no, Chief Johnson,” she says. “Personally, I have no problem delegating to my staff.”

Taylor grins. 

oooo

Raydor trails Brenda back to the murder room. Her division is still cleaning up from their last case and when she comes in and then they see Raydor, they all look hopeful.

“We catch a case?” Flynn asks. 

“Not exactly,” Brenda mutters. “I have a special assignment from Chief Pope. Which means for the next few days, I want Lieutenant Tao and Sergeant Gabriel to go over to SIS because they’re gonna be short a few people. Provenza and Flynn, you can go to SOB because they’re gonna need some extra hands, too.” 

“What about me?” Sanchez asks. 

“You stay here and man the phones,” she says sweetly. “And maybe finish some of that paperwork you owe me too, okay Julio? You think I didn’t notice that but I did.”

Gabriel and Flynn both point at him, smirking. 

“What about you?” Provenza asks. Brenda looks over at him and realizes he’s talking to Captain Raydor. 

Brenda sighs. “She’s with me.” 

Raydor follows her into her office, too. Brenda doesn’t say anything, but she’s not sure what they’re supposed to do past reviewing their packets and showing up tomorrow to scout out the place. She flops herself into her office chair - Raydor sits across from her much more daintily. Crosses her long legs and leans back, looking at Brenda over the rims of her glasses. 

“We should have dinner tonight,” Raydor says.

“What?” Brenda asks, blurts it right out in surprise. 

“We’re not exactly the best of friends,” Raydor says. “I think trying to find some common ground might help us to be more convincing tomorrow.”

“I can be convincing,” Brenda mutters.

“Yes,” Raydor agrees easily enough. “You’re a very good actress, Chief. I am not.” 

Brenda smiles at the unexpected honesty. Feels something thaw. 

“Dinner,” she says. “Just you and me.”

“Drinks maybe, too,” Raydor says after a slight pause. 

“I should hope so,” Brenda agrees.

oooo

She lets Captain Raydor pick the place. She’s a local, after all, and Brenda a creature of habit who doesn’t like trying something new. It’s always Fritz dragging her to new restaurants and sometimes it’s fine, and sometimes she makes him promise they’ll never go back. She’d called him once Raydor had gone back to her own office, finally, and had demanded if he knew about the trafficking ring that was about to get busted.

“I know there’s a joint operation, but I don’t know how you know about it,” Fritz says.

“Oh, Will wants me and Captain Raydor and some other ladies to help out with the op,” she says.

“What?” Fritz says. “Brenda, women are exactly who they’re kidnapping!”

“Yes, that’s why they’re stackin’ the deck,” Brenda says. “Don’t worry.”

“How am I supposed to not worry?” Fritz says.

“It’s my job,” Brenda says. 

“You’re a division head, you shouldn’t be-”

“Can we not have this fight again?” she says. “I’m not calling for your permission.” 

“Then why are you calling?” he asks after a pause.

“I’m going to be late, that’s all,” she says. “I gotta stay late and do a little prep with Captain Raydor.” 

“Well,” Fritz says with a forced chuckle. “Play nice.” 

“You gonna be okay on your own?” she asks. 

“I’m pretty used to you working late,” Fritz says. No chuckle this time.

Captain Raydor appears in her office door just after six, her purse on her shoulder and her coat over her arm. 

“Where we goin’?” Brenda asks, shutting her computer off and grabbing things from the surface of her desk and tossing them into her bag. Phone, glasses, keys, bag of gummy bears, the packet of information Cooper had given her. She hesitates for just a moment and then yanks open her top drawer and snags a round cake before bumping the drawer closed again with her hip.

“You have everything?” Raydor asks with a barely suppressed smile. 

“Yes, yes,” Brenda says, reaching under the lampshade to turn off the light. She tries never to turn on the florescent overhead lights, unflattering and buzzing. Her office gets dark and for a moment Raydor is backlit, just a tall, pretty silhouette. 

“There’s a place I like a few blocks from here,” she says, holding the office door open for Brenda to walk through. “It’s small, but the food is great.” 

“I like great food,” Brenda says as they head for the elevator. “I even like bad food. Just food, really.”

“So I’ve heard,” she says, but it doesn’t sound all that malicious. For once.

Brenda follows her in her own car so they don’t have to come back to the office and because the idea of making car small talk before she even has a drink in her hand seems insurmountable. But when they arrive, there’s no valet and just a small lot. Raydor waves her into it to claim the only available space and drives on to find parking elsewhere. Brenda waits in her car for at least five minutes before she sees the Captain coming up the sidewalk. She opens her door and waves her down.

“I called ahead from the car,” Raydor says. “We’ll probably have to wait, but it’ll be worth it.” 

“I’m in no rush, Captain,” Brenda says, following her through the creaky, wooden door into the crowded, warm restaurant. It smells amazing - it smells like home. “Is this…?”

“Soul food,” Raydor says. 

“Soul food,” Brenda repeats, a little humbled. “Captain, I-”

“Hang on,” Raydor says, touching her shoulder briefly and stepping over to talk to the hostess. They exchange a few words and Raydor smiles and nods. Comes back and says, “They’re going to seat us now. I told them outside is okay.”

“I didn’t know there was an outside,” Brenda says. 

Outside is a tiny deck with three tables, each with a little lantern in the middle. 

“Thanks,” Raydor says when they’re seated. It’s cool out here, but not too cold and Brenda feels strangely disconnected from the entire situation. Here she is, sitting across from a woman she has cursed and hated, and she is actually sort of looking forward to the evening. Good food that reminds her of home, a small deck with tiny, twinkly white lights strung above them. Captain Raydor looking at her like they might, for once, be on the same team. 

“What’s your favorite?” Raydor asks. “I usually get gumbo.”

“I like fried chicken, ‘specially if I don’t have to make it myself,” Brenda says. “Not that I’ve ever done that successfully.” 

Raydor gives her a patient smile. 

“Should we get to it, Captain?” Brenda asks, pulling out her packet on the case. 

“What if just for this case, what if you called me Sharon,” she says. “Don’t you think that would be easier? More convincing?”

Brenda nods.

“After this over, we can go right back to the way things were.”

“Sharon,” Brenda says, trying it out. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best.”

She doesn’t give her permission to use her first name but she doesn’t say that she can’t. Still, it never comes up through dinner and beer, through going over the details of the case, through Sharon telling her to dress “more like a Californian.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Brenda demands. 

“Maybe leave the tiny pink flower patterns at home,” Sharon says as they toss their credit cards onto the tray with the check. When the server comes, Brenda tells her to split down the middle. 

“I’ll butch it up,” Brenda promises.

“Oh,” Sharon says. “I don’t think anyone would buy that.”

Brenda rolls her eyes, laughs. “Maybe not.” 

She offers to drive Sharon to her car, but the Captain declines. 

“This was good,” she says, outside Brenda’s car. “I hope… I’m glad you feel comfortable enough to work with me.”

“It ain’t you, exactly,” Brenda says, full and feeling a touch honest, especially since Sharon has actually been pretty nice about things and beer always sits warm in her tummy and makes her honest. “I just like to be in control of my cases, that’s all.”

“And this isn’t your case?” Sharon asks. 

“We’ll see,” Brenda says. “See you tomorrow, Sharon.”

“Good night.” Sharon gives her a three fingered wave, a little ripple, and heads down the sidewalk. 

oooo

Brenda wears a black pencil skirt and a white, button down blouse. Boring, but form fitting and she can’t help but wear a pair of hot pink heels. She’s sitting at the table in the kitchen, eating a bowl of raisin bran when Fritz comes into get coffee and stops, stares at her. 

“If you were my principal, I’d get detention every day,” he says. 

She stares at him over the rims of her glasses and frowns. “You don’t serve detention with the principal,” she says. 

“You know what I mean,” he says, moving to the coffee pot. “Hot for teacher.”

“I’m tryin’ to look like a lesbian!” she says. “Sharon and I have to go scout the warehouse today!” 

“That’s you being a lesbian?” he asks with a grin. 

“Sharon said no florals,” she says. “But she didn’t say no pink.” 

Fritz takes the paper she’s reading and carefully extracts the sports section before sitting down. “So it’s Sharon now?”

“We have to pretend to like each other,” Brenda says, shrugging. “What am I gonna say? This is my girlfriend, Police Captain Raydor?”

“Oh your girlfriend, is it?” he asks.

“Take it up with Pope, G-Man,” she says, standing and carrying her bowl to the sink. “I’m just followin’ orders.” 

“Please be careful,” he says. “I’ll be very upset if you get kidnapped and taken to Mexico.”

“I will be,” she says. “We’re just pokin’ around today.” She leans over and gives him a kiss. “I’m sure Commander Taylor will let you ride along in the surveillance van if you want.”

He scowls. “We have our own van, Brenda.”

“Suit yourself,” she says.

oooo

Sharon shows up at her office an hour before they’re scheduled to meet with Pope and Taylor and Cooper. 

And she’s wearing, basically, the same thing Brenda is. Tight black pencil skirt, a button down blouse, though hers is green, and red lipstick. A shiny heel.

“This isn’t going to work,” Sharon says instead of saying hello. “We can’t both look like this.”

“You told me no flowers!” Brenda exclaims hotly. 

“I didn’t tell you to vamp it up,” Sharon scolds. “I thought that you understood that no flowers meant to try pants!” 

“I guess I have time to go home,” Brenda says, though she doesn’t, probably. “Though I don’t have a better idea than this.”

“Come up to my office, I brought some options,” Sharon says. 

“Your office?”

“Yes, I have one,” Sharon says. “Just because you drag me down here all the time doesn’t mean I don’t have an office.” 

“I wasn’t implyin’ that,” Brenda says. “But if you were so sure I was gonna blow it, why didn’t you just bring your clothes with you?”

“You didn’t blow it,” Sharon says. “Obviously. You look fine. Just not right for the part. Come on, we can fix it. We have time.”

Sharon’s office is half the size of Brenda’s but it’s got a better view and isn’t a fishbowl in the middle of her division. She’s got four solid walls and a door and a window just to let in some light. Brenda hesitates in the doorway, ignoring the desks to her back and the people staring at them, and Sharon pulls a canvas bag out from a filing cabinet. 

“Come in,” she says. “Shut that.”

Brenda complies. 

“My daughter is about your build,” Sharon says. “And she’s an athlete so I raided what she left behind.”

“An athlete,” Brenda says uneasily. Sharon pulls out some brown pants and a tank top with thin straps that cross in the back. A pair of sturdy looking shoes that are a little more like a hiking boot than a sneaker. “If you pull a flannel shirt out of that bag, I swear to god-”

“No,” Sharon says. “That’s a stereotype.” 

But she does pull out a drab looking olive button down thing.

“This is mine,” she admits. 

“And I’m the one that has to wear all of this because?” 

“Because Emily is a size four, a small, and wears a six and a half shoe,” Sharon snaps. “Who does that sound like?”

Brenda stares at her. “Four might be loose,” she says, finally.

Sharon snorts and hands her the clothes. “Come on, try them on and if they don’t fit, we’ll run down to Target.”

“Here?”

Sharon rolls her eyes and turns around. “I won’t look.”

“I could go to the ladies’ room,” she says, hesitating.

“Oh that’s a good idea,” Sharon says. “And then you can stop along the way and ask everyone in my division what they think about your new, lesbian outfit.” 

“You know,” Brenda says, unbuttoning her blouse and yanking it up out of the waist of her skirt. “You could be, I don’t know. Not a bitch?”

“You first,” Sharon mutters and Brenda has half a mind to write her up for insubordination except for that she’s shrugging off her blouse and she can’t exactly enforce authority when she’s standing five feet away from her in nothing but a skirt, a black bra, and pink heels. 

She shimmies out of the skirt and the pants actually fit pretty well. A little loose, just enough so they sit just below her hip bones. 

“I don’t have the right bra for this top,” she says, holding it up. Sharon turns around to stay something and then whips her head back to the window, realizing that Brenda hasn’t quite finished yet.

“So wear it without the bra,” Sharon says. 

“What’s your bra size, Captain?” Brenda snaps.

“You can’t have mine.”

“Let me guess. 34B? C, maybe?” 

“Maybe,” Sharon says.

“Well I’m a 32DD,” she says. “There’s no such thing as no bra.” 

“You won’t be able to see the straps with the overshirt on,” Sharon says after a moment. 

“Do lesbians care about showin’ bra straps?” Brenda asks as she pulls the tank top over her head. 

“I don’t speak for all lesbians, I’m afraid,” Sharon says. 

“I’m decent enough,” Brenda says and Sharon turns back around. Watches her shrug on the olive colored shirt and lift her hair from beneath the collar. “Why are you smirkin’ at me?”

“You look so…”

“Gay?”

“Small,” she says. “I think it’s the flat shoes.” 

“You’re like one inch taller than me,” Brenda says. “At most.”

“Okay,” Sharon says, sitting her office chair. Brenda sits in the chair across from her. 

“I don’t have socks.”

“I’m supposed to be a lawyer,” Sharon says, reaching into the bag and pulling out a balled up pair of white socks. She extends them to Brenda who takes them with a huff. “You’re a small business owner? What does that mean. It means nothing.” 

“Exactly,” Brenda says, pulling the socks on. They’re the kind meant to stay hidden in the shoes, coming up to just below her ankle. The toes are pink. She tries not to think that these are probably Sharon’s socks and not her daughter’s. 

The shoes fit well, too. Damn it. 

“Exactly what?”

“I can play it by ear, is all,” Brenda says. “Don’t worry about the lies, Cap-Sharon. I’ll do the talkin’.”

“This is you preparing me for the op?” she asks skeptically.

“I can’t train you in undercover work in an afternoon,” Brenda says. “But you know me well enough, now, I think. You can just follow my lead.” 

“I don’t understand why they don’t have you go in alone,” she frets. 

“Have you ever done an undercover operation, Captain?” Brenda demands now. “Because you know good and well why we don’t send police officers in alone.”

“I’ve participated in… well, not where I’m the one…” Sharon stammers. 

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Brenda says. “And if you aren’t sure what to do, just stand there, shut up, and look pretty.” 

Sharon narrows her eyes. 

oooo

Will laughs when he sees her. Brenda refrains, only just, from sticking out her tongue at him. No one laughs at Sharon, she notices, but they do give her a long glance. She curses Sharon’s daughter for being Brenda’s size and not tall and lithe like her mama. Her daughter certainly doesn’t have the bust that Brenda has, because the straps of the tank top are digging into her skin a bit. 

She and Sharon are tailed by the van all the way to the warehouse. They use one of the undercover cars, a small green SUV. There’s a small power struggle over who is going to drive until Brenda just points to her shoes and shakes the keys at Sharon. “I’ve given up enough for you today, thank you.” 

Sharon tucks her chin, but it doesn’t hide the eyeroll. They get all wired up before they go, so they are both aware that everyone in the van behind them can hear every single word. 

They ride quietly until, at a long stoplight, Sharon says, “Your ponytail is too high. You look like a cheerleader.”

“That’s a stereotype,” Brenda parrots back snidely. “And anyway there’s not one way to look like a lesbian and it’s homophobic to think that.”

“I agree,” Sharon says. “But you don’t look like someone who wants to purchase an industrial warehouse either.” 

“Do I look like someone easy to kidnap and sell into sexual slavery?” Brenda demands. 

“You do in that ponytail,” Sharon says softly. She can practically hear the guys laughing in the van. 

The light turns green and Brenda reaches up and yanks the elastic out of her hair. Shakes her head a little, her hair settling around her shoulders. 

“I’ll talk, you take a good walk around, give the boys in the van the full show,” Brenda says. “Captain.” She adds it so Sharon knows it’s an order, not a suggestion.

“What if he thinks I’m your attorney and you just like to hike?” Sharon asks.

“The only comforting thing about any of this is that I’ve finally found your weakness,” Brenda says. “Pretending.” 

She thinks she’ll glance over and see a scowl but when she looks, Sharon’s mouth is curled up at the corners.

“We’ll see,” she says.

The man who meets them is ten minutes late and everyone is very tense. Sharon and Brenda, waiting in the car, the van parked around the corner full of their guys. No one makes any small talk, even the voices in Brenda’s ear are quiet. Brenda keeps staring at Sharon’s hands, her dark red fingernails. Had they been that red during dinner the night before? She’s certain they had not. She glances down at her own hands, dry and unvarnished. Her nails look a little ragged, actually. She curls her fingers into her palms, tucks her thumbs away.

“ _Heads up, ladies,_ ” says Taylor’s voice in their ear and they both sit up straight. “ _He’s here._ ” 

They both get out of the car; Sharon holds her hand up to her brow against the sunlight to get a good look at him. Brenda walks around to Sharon’s side of the car and reaches out, runs her hand lightly along her bare forearm and says, softly, “You’ll do fine.”

Partially to comfort her, partially because the performance has already begun. Sharon manages to hide her surprise but Brenda can feel it under her fingers anyway, the little flinch. Sharon’s skin is soft and smooth. Brenda’s own arm is covered in fine blonde hair but Sharon’s feels as smooth as a baby, hairless and brand new. 

A lot of Sharon’s worry disappears when they start talking to the man. He’s got such a heavy Russian accent, his English so broken, that Brenda slips into conversing with him in Russian before she thinks much about consequences and the guy seems pretty relieved about it, actually. 

Sharon says, “I’m going to take a look around.”

Brenda keeps an eye on Sharon as they speak, watches her distantly as she pokes around and spins in place, trying to get a long shot of everything. Brenda tells the man, Marat Sokolov, that they’re looking for someplace to store inventory for their business, that they sell medical supplies. Boring, nondescript. 

Finally, in her ear softly, Gabriel’s voice. “ _English, Chief, please?_ ” 

“Sharon,” Brenda calls. “Mr. Sokolov says it’s quiet round here. Mostly storage. Ain’t that what we’re lookin’ for?”

Sharon comes back, stands close enough to Brenda that their arms brush. Brenda had intentionally left the collar of the olive shirt rumpled in hopes that Sharon might try to fix it and she does so now, perfectly playing the part. Reaching out to fuss with the fabric, smoothing it with a smile. An intimate gesture. Brenda smiles at her.

“Well,” Sharon says. “Yes, but I was hoping if we purchase something it could be dual purpose.”

Marat looks hard at Brenda, confused and she translates for him that Sharon was interested in somewhere they could throw a party if they wanted and his face lights up.

“Party!” he says in English. “Party yes. Party here. You come?”

“Here?” Sharon asks. “Sorry, I don’t speak Russian like Brenda.”

He tilts his head. “She okay. Funny accent.”

Sharon smiles. “It’s funny in English, too.” 

Brenda forces herself not to glare and instead slips her hand into Sharon’s, lacing their fingers tight. “You have parties here?” she asks.

“Yes, yes, my son,” he says. “One last one before we sell. If you like party, you come see, yes? Decide for selves?” He glances down at their entwined hands. “I get you you… uh… paper…?” He looks at Brenda for help and says “ _Listovka_?”

“Flyer,” she says. “Okay. That might be good. You want to come check it out?” This to Sharon who tilts her head. 

“Could be fun,” she says. “Can we bring some of our friends?”

“ _Da, da_ ,” he says. “ _Konechno_!”

Sharon glances at her, her palm sweaty. Brenda just nods. “Of course, he said.” 

“Well thank you so much for your time today, Mr. Sokolov,” Sharon says, releasing Brenda’s hand to shake his. He hesitates for just a moment and then grips Sharon’s fingers limply before dropping her hand completely and shoving his hand into his pocket. 

“Flyer in truck,” he says. “You come.” 

So they exit the warehouse, squinting against the sunshine. Brenda tilts her head toward the car and Sharon breaks off, grateful for the reprieve. 

Brenda takes the flyer from Mr. Sokolov and she can smell the inside of his truck clinging to it - stale cigarettes and coffee. She thanks him again, promises that they’ll be in touch.

“Your girlfriend is very pretty,” he says in his strained, strange english. 

“I think so too,” she says. 

“She come with you to party?”

“Oh,” says Brenda. “Yeah. Count on it.”

He squints his eyes just a little, smiles. “ _Khorosho_.”

oooo

“Russian?” Will sputters as soon as they get into his office. 

“What do you want, Will, his english was shitty.” Brenda’s tired, her body feeling wrung out now that the stress is behind her. She’s still in Sharon’s clothes, more comfortable, anyway, than she usually is at work. She slumps in one of the chairs around his conference table, knees apart, spine curved. She catches Sharon staring at her and she swears the woman winks, amused, like Brenda is still playing her part. Maybe she is. Maybe she’s method. After all, it’s always been easier to be someone else than to carry of the weight of being her own, worn out self. 

“What if he wants to know why you spoke Russian?” Will demands. 

“I told him I learned it for my work with the CIA,” she says dryly. Will turns bright red. “Oh, I know, you can call your on-call Russian translator to make sure I didn’t mess anything up. Captain Raydor, do you recall who is the on-call Russian translator currently for the LAPD?”

“It would be you, Chief Johnson,” she says. “I believe.”

“So it would, Captain, so it would,” Brenda says, gathering her hair into her hands and securing it with the thick elastic on her wrist. Not a cheerleading ponytail, but at least it’s out of her face. 

“Chief Pope, allow me to point out that this operation was a success. We know about the location and have been personally invited to the event where the kidnapping is supposed to take place. Not only was that Chief Johnson’s doing but thanks to her, we’ve got an open invitation to bring as many officers as we need. So I think the phrase you’re searching for, sir, is ‘thank you’.”

Pope stares at Raydor, his face red, his eyes narrowed. “Your opinion is noted, Captain. Now, I’m ordering both of you to report to SIS to turn in your footage and Brenda, let me be clear - I don’t want you to step one foot out of this building until your entire conversation with Mr. Solokav-”

“Sokolav,” Brenda corrects.

“Until your entire conversation has been transcribed,” he bellows. 

“Fine,” Brenda says, getting to her feet and heading for the door. 

“Dismissed,” Pope says to her retreating back. 

Sharon catches up with her in the hallway. 

“You didn’t have to stand up for me,” Brenda says.

“You’re welcome,” Sharon says tersely, her heels clicking down the hall. 

“I was going to say thank you if you give me half a second!” Brenda says.

“Think of it this way, Chief,” she says. “If we work well enough together, he’ll never let us do it again.” 

“There’s an encouragin’ thought,” Brenda says with a grin.


	2. Chapter 2

Brenda is up before Fritz so she starts the coffee and is sitting in the kitchen when he wakes up, lured by the smell. She’s got her chin resting in her hand at the table and she’s just thinking things through. She’ll get a briefing first thing this morning from Cooper and his team about the warehouse and the flyer she’d procured. 

“ _Listovka_ ,” she says softly to herself, moving her mouth slowly around the word. It had been nice to slip into another language again, yesterday. Like going back in time.

“Huh?” Fritz asks from the doorway to the kitchen. She looks up from her half empty mug and shakes her head.

“Nothin’,” she says. “Just thinkin’ out loud.”

“Did you sleep okay?” he asks, crossing the linoleum to fix his own cup. 

“I guess so,” she says. “Why?”

“You just seemed restless,” he says. “You were mumbling in your sleep.” 

“I think I’m just worried,” she says, giving him a tense smile, as if that might be enough to reassure him. “We don’t know a lot about these people, this party, this trafficking ring… and I don’t feel a hundred percent about Sharon going in there.” 

“Raydor’s tough as nails,” Fritz says, sitting across from her with his dark coffee. He’d been cutting back recently, she’d noticed. No cream in his coffee, no sweets after dinner. He’d been running more. She keeps meaning to ask him about it but something always comes up and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with him wanting to take better care of himself. She’s just a little curious as to why. But not enough to bring it up now. 

“She’s not very experienced undercover, that’s all,” Brenda says. “And the man yesterday, the father of the warehouse owner. He just seemed… he didn’t like her, but he seemed interested.”

“You think Raydor’s the target?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I just don’t want anything to happen to her, that’s all. That’s the last thing I need! If she got hurt on one of my operations! Her ghost’ll haunt me forever!” 

“I think it’s great you two are getting along,” Fritz says. “She may not have spy on her resume like some people-”

“I was an analyst, not a spy.”

“-but she’s definitely someone who will watch your back. You need that,” Fritz says. “When’s the last time you had a female friend?”

She scowls into her mug, slouching a little in her seat. She gets this lecture enough from her mama and daddy, she doesn’t need it from Fritz, too.

“I don’t hardly have time for friends anyway,” she says.

“Regardless,” Fritz says, grabbing his mug and standing up. “She’s good people. I’m gonna take a shower.” 

His words needle at her long after she hears the shower start. She knows it’s because there’s truth in what he’d said. Raydor is tough, she’s smart and has already proven that she’s got Brenda’s best interests at heart. Professional interests. But Brenda had been telling the truth too. She doesn’t have time for friends - she barely has time for Fritz and he’s the only friend she’s got that doesn’t work for her. 

She wanders into the bedroom, knowing she needs to start getting ready for work. She glances into the bathroom where she can see Fritz’s outline through the door of the shower. He still looks pretty good, but they’ve settled into the marriage now and while there was a time she wouldn’t have hesitated to climb in there with him, now she doesn’t even consider it. 

Most nights she’ll choose sleep or work over intimacy and sometimes when they do make love, it feels more like maintenance than romance. Sometimes she catches her mind wandering. But he’s a good man and she understands that when she’d married him, she’d be giving up on other, unfulfilled desires. That’s what marriage is - deciding to do one thing and sticking with it. 

In her closet, she looks around. Dresses and sweater sets, pinks and teals and powder blues. She tries to imagine what Sharon might think if she walked in here and saw the options. She’d scoff, probably, a throaty noise. She looks around. If she were Sharon, if Sharon were here, what would she pick for Brenda to wear?

Slacks, probably. She reaches toward the back, pulls out one of her few business suits. The black pinstripe - and an ivory silk blouse to go with it. The slacks are a little long when she pulls them up over her hips, she’ll have to wear more than a kitten heel, but that’s okay. 

She’s still pinning up her hair when Fritz comes out, searching for boxers. 

“You have another undercover thing today?” he asks, pausing to look her over.

“No,” she says. “Why?”

“You just… usually don’t break out the suit, that’s all,” he says.

“You don’t like it?” she asks, fretting. She pushes the last pin into place and turns to look at him, standing in boxers with a towel around his shoulders. 

“You look amazing,” he says. “Just not like yourself.”

“We just have all these briefings,” she says. “About what to expect. I don’t want the other divisions to think I’m some dumb blonde.”

“No one thinks that,” Fritz says. She lets him lean in and kiss her cheek.

“Thanks,” she says, but she doesn’t feel certain. 

When she gets to the office, she stops by her office to turn on her computer and check her email, to snag a cup of coffee before heading to SOB. They have all the fancy techy equipment so they’re going to have their briefing there.

Brenda calls for the elevator and when it opens, coming down from a higher floor, Sharon is on it and she’s also wearing a black suit with pinstripes.

“Seriously?” Sharon says. “Again?”

Brenda just rolls her eyes and steps on. “How many men are in this building right now that are wearing a blue or black or gray suit?”

Sharon sticks her arm out of the elevator, stopping the doors before they close and says, “Come on.”

“We’re gonna be late,” Brenda complains, but follows her anyway saying, “Who cares if we match?”

“It might not be important to you,” Sharon says, stalking through the murder room and into Brenda’s office. “But I’d rather not play into the idea that there’s one kind of woman that rises in the ranks of police departments.”

“Cold hearted lesbians in masculine suits?” Brenda asks. 

Sharon’s mouth tightens. 

“We both got roped into this,” Brenda says. “No one is going think you’re a lesbian just because you’re goin’ undercover as one.”

“That isn’t the point!” she says. “The point is I don’t want anyone speculating about my personal life. It’s easy for you - you’re married, everyone knows Agent Howard and you have a big rock on your finger. No one whispers about you behind your back.”

“Not about who I’m sleepin’ with, anyway,” Brenda says, slipping off her suit jacket. Sharon fights a smile, she can see it. “I thought you were married. You have kids, I thought?”

“Yes,” Sharon says, taking the jacket from her hand slipping it onto the back of one of the chairs at the conference table. “I have two. And I am technically married but people know that… we’re not… people know Jackson.” 

“I don’t know him,” Brenda points out, opening the cupboard and pulling out her spare sweater. 

“That’s because you’re new,” Sharon says. Brenda slips on the sweater, a dark navy. She doesn’t usually put blue and black together, but she doesn’t have a lot of choices and Sharon nods at her. “Better.”

“Listen,” Brenda says, putting her hands on her hips. “It’s not because people think you’re a lesbian that they don’t like you, it’s the job they dislike. And also your attitude. But I never once thought you were gay and even if you were, I wouldn’t care.”

“Well,” Sharon says. “I feel so, so, so much better. Thank you, Brenda.”

“That’s not… that maybe came out wrong.”

“Maybe,” she says. 

“And anyway, more joint operations like this can only be good for you. You were hard to like at first, but even I can admit you grow on a person.” 

“Please,” Sharon says. “I don’t know how many more compliments from you I can handle.” 

“Okay, we’re already running late, we can talk this out later, Captain,” she says. 

“Can’t wait,” Sharon says.

Everyone is already in the special ops conference room when they arrive, and no one comments on their clothes because they’re all professionals and it’s Sharon that has gone off her rocker, in Brenda’s opinion. There’s one empty chair, though several people are standing. She’s never seen so many women in one room in this building before.

Brenda takes the chair, Sharon melts against the wall, her arms crossed. But Brenda does spare her a glance and it’s more than just a passing one. She does look good in that suit, is easily the most striking woman in a line of women along the wall, despite being at least ten years older than them all. 

“You ready to start, Chief?” she hears Cooper ask. Sharon untucks long enough to twirl a finger at Brenda, telling her to turn around. She spins and sees most everyone look at her. 

“Yes, by all means, please.” She smiles. “Dazzle me, Lieutenant.” 

Between the blueprints of the warehouse they’d gotten from the city and the footage from their cameras, they have a good idea of layout. Cooper goes over all the exits, where the undercover officers will be stationed, as well as officers outside of the warehouse and the FBI van. 

“Shouldn’t Agent Howard be here if this is a join operation?” Sharon says from behind Brenda. This time, Brenda refuses to look at her.

“It’s not,” Cooper says. But we’re letting them tag along in case any confession or evidence ties our kidnappings to their trafficking ring.”

“Which obviously is going to happen,” Brenda mutters. 

It’s Micki Mendoza who goes over the flyer that Brenda had procured. 

“Thank you, Chief Johnson,” she says. “With this, now we know that our informant has at least told us some truth. The party promotion company on this flyer is owned by none other than Iosif Sokolav, son of Marat Sokolav, this lovely fellow.” She points to the screen where a still from Brenda’s bodycam shows the man from the warehouse. 

“Three of the last five girls have been taken from parties hosted by Iosif Sokolav’s company,” says Cooper. 

“The warehouse is currently owned by a company owned by… wait for it…” Micki says, pulling up a new picture. “This man. Pasha Sokolov. Marat’s brother.” 

“Wait, that’s…” Will snaps. 

“We know him as Peter Stewart,” Cooper says. “He Americanized his name for business dealings. Peter Stewart is who our informant implicated as a big fish in this trafficking ring. If we get a member of the Sokolav family, we can turn them over to the FBI and throw a real wrench into their operation.”

“So our goal is stop the kidnappings on our soil but for the actual sex trafficking we’re just, what? Hoping for the best?” Sharon asks. 

“Captain-” Will says, his voice a dangerous tone.

“She’s right,” Brenda jumps in. She knows better than to let Will hit his stride. “I mean, you’re asking us to go out and twist like a worm on a hook, I don’t think it’s askin’ too much to bring in the FBI to make this a real joint operation so we can do more good than we’re doin’.” 

“Chief Johnson,” Will says.

“It’s no use poolin’ all these resources to kill one roach when there’s a whole hive somewhere else,” she argues. “If we’re gonna this, we ought to do it once and do it right.” 

“An intrusion,” Sharon says.

Now everyone turns to look at her.

“What?” says Brenda.

“A group of cockroaches is called an intrusion, not a hive,” she says.

“Yes, thank you, Sharon,” she says. 

“Hey, I want to bring down the bad guys as much as the rest of you, but we have two days and not a lot of time, so if you ask me, I’d rather catch someone than lose everyone all together,” Cooper says. “But you have the ear of the FBI, Chief Johnson, so if you think you can secure us more help then by all means.” 

“I’ll see if they can give us any more than a van,” Brenda says.

“Now,” Micki says. “Marat Sokolov knows Chief Johnson and Captain Raydor so there’s no sense in them trying to blend in but the rest of us…”

And she launches into some long winded talk about dress code and the buddy system, about the kind of gear they’ll be wearing and what to expect should someone disappear, what kind of information to try to gather should the kidnapping fail to go down. 

“Chief Johnson, Captain Raydor,” Will says when everyone is dismissed. “Stay for a moment.” 

And then it’s just Will and Taylor, Cooper, Brenda and Sharon. And Micki Mendoza who looks supremely uncomfortable.

“Why don’t you two take Detective Mendoza out to lunch,” Pope says before turning on his heel and leaving.

Brenda glances at Sharon who looks equally perplexed. Cooper claps Mendoza on the shoulder and heads for the door, Taylor following him out. 

“Um,” Micki says. “So, I’m supposed to brief you two separately.” 

“No lunch?” Brenda asks.

“I mean… I thought that was just…”

“This will go better if we feed her,” Sharon says. 

"Yes, ma'am," Micki says. "Ma'ams."

Again, Brenda defers to Sharon, but she doesn’t take them far. They just ride the elevator down to street level and cross the street to one of the sandwich shops. Micki gets a turkey sandwich, Sharon orders a salad. Brenda splits the difference and gets a wrap and insists on paying for it all. It’ll be helpful to have these women like her at least until this operation is over. Even she can manage a temporary cease fire, she thinks. Despite Sharon’s snide, insubordinate tone and general disdain for whatever Brenda is wearing, they have been getting along fairly well. For them.

“Detective Mendoza,” Sharon says after a few moments of awkward silence. “Why don’t you go ahead and tell us what you need to tell us.”

“I think we both can tell you’re gettin’ orders from above, here,” Brenda adds. Sharon nods encouragingly.

“It’s about the party,” Micki says. “I wasn’t kidding when I said it would be better if you guys stood out a little.”

“We can do that,” Brenda says. “It’s easier, really, then blending in.” 

“I’ve been to these sorts of parties before,” Micki says and then hesitates, colors. “Not always as an undercover cop.”

“Ah,” Sharon says. 

“Chief Pope wants me to help you, uh… look the part.” 

Micki shoves a bite of sandwich into her mouth.

“I swear I have never talked about clothes as much as I have this week,” Brenda says, leaning back. 

“Not that your mean librarian and REI employee looks weren’t nice,” Micki says. “But if you want to get noticed at a warehouse rave, probably we need to go flashier.” 

Brenda snorts, stops only when Sharon levels her a look over her glasses. Mean librarian indeed. Brenda doesn’t feel slandered by the dig at her own outfit - those clothes weren’t hers. They’re still in her hamper, however. She’ll have to wash them, give them back. Maybe she can send Buzz up to FID with them and wash her hands of the whole situation. That’ll be nice, once this is all said and done.

“Okay,” Sharon says. “What should we wear.”

“Um, tight?” Micki says. “Lots of skin? Bright things, things that will catch the light. Things you can move in, dance. You’re gonna have to dance.” 

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Brenda mutters. She hasn’t danced at a club in over ten years. 

“Skirts only if they’re short. Vests are always good. Maybe for you, Captain. Chief, I think you’re too well endowed for a vest.” Micki looks like she’s horrified with herself for saying it but Brenda just elbows Sharon in the arm.

“Told you.” 

Micki doesn’t ask.

“Write up some guidelines, find some pictures of appropriate pieces and email it to me,” Sharon says. “I’ll make sure we’re prepared.” 

“It’ll be tempting to dress younger, but I don’t think these guys are looking for that.” Micki hesitates. 

“What?” Brenda presses, worry curling down low in her stomach. 

“It’s just the age of these women. When really young girls get taken and sold into sexual slavery, it’s easy to keep them in that life but women who are in their thirties and forties and fifties? They’d fight back, you know? They’d be more resourceful. I just don’t think these women are surviving very long.”

“Raped and killed,” Brenda says. 

Micki nods. “Like maybe the killing is part of the package. I don’t know. I don’t have any evidence, just my instinct.”

“You could be exactly right,” Brenda says.

“Excuse me ladies,” Sharon says. They watch her walk across the restaurant toward the back where the restrooms were. 

Brenda leans in a little and says, “Detective Mendoza, I want you to keep a close eye on Captain Raydor for the duration of this op.”

“Of course, Ma’am,” Micki says. 

“It’s not that I plan on leavin’ her side but I don’t like the way Marat Sokolov was sizing her up and if he’s already got her in mind as the target, I want to definitely make sure that she doesn’t get hurt or worse.” 

“I can brief the rest of the team,” Micki says.

“No, no, she’ll hate that. She’ll find out and she’ll know I’m behind it. Just keep someone on her all night. If we get split up, god forbid, I just want to know that someone else has eyes on her.”

“You two are going to be well covered,” Micki promises. “One more thing, Chief Johnson.” 

Brenda nods.

“If it starts getting late and there’s no sign of activity, you two might have to… amp things up a little. Find a corner. Look, uh, occupied?”

Brenda feels her eyebrows crawl up her head.

“It makes you seem like an easier target. If you’re, um. Distracted.” 

“I understand,” Brenda says. “I don’t know how I got to this place, but I understand.”

Micki smiles. “It’s not all bad, Chief. And the Captain is… well I’ve had worse partners for ops.”

“Like Julio Sanchez?” Brenda says and Micki grins. 

“Yeah! Like, why they always gotta put the latinos together?” 

Sharon’s heels on the floor signal her return and Brenda leans back in her chair. 

“You ready?” she asks. Brenda nods.

oooo

Sharon comes over after work, like they have to study for an exam, or something. It feels so strange to open up the door and see her standing there. Joel leaps from the back of the sofa upon seeing a stranger and skitters down the hall into the bedroom, to hide under the bed. 

“Fritz isn’t home yet,” Brenda says, though why she isn’t sure. She’s just nervous, maybe, about Sharon being in her home, about her conversation with Detective Mendoza earlier. Sharon is holding two large shopping bags and manages a tense smile.

“Okay,” she says. “Good to know.” 

“What’s that? What’s in there?” Brenda asks, pointing to the bags.

“Do you think I could come in, Chief?” she asks. 

“Yes, of course, sorry,” Brenda says, stepping aside. “And Brenda, it’s Brenda. We gotta practice.” 

“Brenda,” Sharon says. “I brought some things over. I thought maybe between your wardrobe and mine we can probably find something that works within Detective Mendoza’s guidelines.”

“Trampy but not too young,” Brenda says. “Hard to picture any of that comin’ out of your well tailored closet.”

“Thank you,” Sharon says. “For that unexpected compliment.” 

Brenda rolls her eyes the moment Sharon’s back is turned. 

“How about somethin’ to drink,” Brenda says. “We have, um, wine?”

“Oh, that could help things along,” she says. “Where do you want me to put these?”

“Down the hall, on the right is the bedroom. That’s where I keep my clothes,” Brenda says only slightly sarcastically. 

“You don’t say,” Sharon voice says from down the hall. 

There’s a half empty bottle of wine on the counter by window and she looks at her reflection in the window. It’s not exactly dark yet but dark enough to see her own, tired face. She’s surprised to see that she looks nervous. And maybe she is, truth be told, about the whole ordeal. This isn’t how her cases usually go. She likes to call the shots, yes, but not to be at the center of things quite like this. It won’t do. She forces her expression into something more neutral and reaches for two wine glasses. Pours the glasses to slightly less than half full and goes down the hall to find Sharon standing awkwardly in her bedroom, shopping bags at her feet.

God, they did not think this through.

“Okay, here, take it, take it,” Brenda says. Sharon does, sniffing the dark red liquid before touching her lips to the glass and sipping it. 

“Thank you,” she says. 

“So what did Detective Mendoza say?” Brenda asks. “I’m gonna guess my sweaters are probably off the table.”

“May I?” Sharon asks, pointing to closet. 

And Brenda is struck with the strangest sense of deja vu. It was only this morning she was standing there wondering what Sharon would think if she saw the closet and now Sharon is in here, right in her bedroom, and it’s like Brenda dreamed a dream that is coming true. Like she’s some sort of prophet.

“Yeah,” Brenda says. “Go on, then.”

Sharon laughs after a moment and says, “It’s like the Barbie aisle at Toys R Us.” 

Brenda peers into one of the shopping bags that Sharon has left behind but everything looks black and she can’t make anything out. 

And then the key in the door and Fritz saying, “Hi honey!” 

Maybe Sharon doesn’t hear him from the closet, maybe she freezes, but Fritz comes into the bedroom, kisses her and tugs at his tie. 

“I’m beat,” he says. “Turns out suddenly I have to work a joint case with the LAPD. Can you believe that?” 

“Uh,” Brenda says. 

And then Sharon, leaning against the closet door, holding her wine. 

Fritz doesn’t jump, which she gives him credit for. But he does go very still.

“Captain Raydor,” he says.

“Agent Howard,” she returns.

“Honey, Captain Raydor is in our closet,” he says, glancing at her.

“Yeah, we’re prepping for tomorrow,” Brenda says. “We shouldn’t be long.”

“Hope you don’t mind if I borrow your wife,” Sharon says, smirking just a little.

“As long as you return her how you found her,” he says, matching the light tone. “I brought take out. You’ll stay for dinner, won’t you Captain?”

Sharon does glance at Brenda now, looking for what? Permission? Brenda feels too strange about it all, that she doesn’t offer Sharon an out or anything. Just stands there.

“Oh,” Sharon says. “I couldn’t.”

“No, I insist,” Fritz says. “You finish up in here. I’ll set the table.”

Brenda watches him leave and then turns back to Sharon. Her cheeks are a little rosy, but all in all she looks the same. 

“Brenda,” she says. “Do you have anything backless?”

So they’re just going to push through and pretend that didn’t happen. Brenda can work with that. Brenda’s built a whole life around that.

“Some dresses,” she says. 

“Pull those, pull any skirts above the knee, pull anything that will reflect light. Beads or sequins or metallics.”

“Okay,” Brenda says.

“We’ll just bring it all and let Mendoza have the final say,” Sharon says. “Then I don’t have to stay, I can just get out of your hair-”

“You do have to stay,” Brenda says. “Fritz just told you to stay.”

“So?” Sharon says. 

“So stay!” Brenda says. “It’ll be fine. He likes you, Fritz likes you.”

“I don’t care,” Sharon says. “We’re not friends, this is odd.”

“We have to be for a few days at least,” Brenda says. “Come on, drink your wine. We’ll eat. Then you can go.” 

Sharon scowls at her. 

“Show me what’s in your bags,” Brenda says. “Because it looks like you’re going undercover to a funeral.”

“I don’t do color,” Sharon says, and takes a big drink of wine. 

“That’s not true! I’ve seen you in color. You have that very pretty purple jacket. That color is great on you!” Brenda says. “And for some reason you bought it in blue, too, but the purple is good.”

“That was almost nice,” Sharon says. “You got so close.” 

Brenda picks up one of the bags and just dumps it onto the bed. Starts pawing through it. Black pants, black skirt, the black vest of a three piece suit, a sleeveless blouse that is probably technically gray but is so dark it may as well be black. One red dress. 

“I’ve never seen you wear this,” Brenda says, holding it up. “This is pretty. Not for tomorrow, but you could wear this to work!”

“It’s kind of flashy for work,” Sharon says uneasily.

“So?”

“So,” Sharon says. “So there.”

“You could put a sweater over it, I guess, or a blazer, but Sharon, hell, I’d wear this.”

“You can have it,” Sharon says crossly. 

“Why did you even come here if you were going to fight against the entire activity?” Brenda says. She looks at the tag but it’s a size too big and not petite so the hem would fall all wrong on her, not that she’s really gonna keep it. 

“I don’t know,” Sharon says. “I just think maybe if we do well with this I could… never mind.” She shakes her head. “Come on, let’s go eat.” 

Brenda watches her head back toward the big dining room, curious and confused. 

There’s something that Sharon Raydor wants and Brenda is going to find out what it is.

oooo

Brenda comes into work late - but already Sharon and Micki Mendoza are in her office, clothes spread out around them. She tosses her own shopping bag to the floor and says, “Make yourselves at home.”

“Thanks, Chief,” Micki says, taking the bag that had skidded to her feet. She looks through it for a moment and pulls out exactly what Brenda knew she would - a teeny, tiny black cocktail dress. It’s not flashy, but it’s certainly small. “For you,” she says, handing it Brenda. “That was easy.” 

Sharon makes a disgruntled sound. 

“For the Captain though,” Micki says. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I think with the wire and the cam it’ll be easiest to go with the first choice.” 

“I’m not-”

“Show me,” Brenda says. 

“Absolutely not-” Sharon sputters. But they both ignore her protests and Micki picks up a pair of dark, dark jeans and the black vest from the three piece suit. Holds them up. Brenda waits for Micki to grab something else, but she doesn’t. 

Brenda turns her wide eyes to Sharon who is red all over again and looks furious. 

“That’s not that… not that bad,” Brenda says. “Nothin’ bedazzled! And black, your signature color.” 

“Put her in that, I’ll take the dress,” Sharon demands.

“Now Sharon,” Brenda says. “We both know I don’t have the figure for that.” 

Sharon’s mouth has become a hard line.

“Thank you for your help, Detective. We’ll see you this evenin’,” Brenda says. Micki takes the hint and leaves. Brenda turns to Sharon. “I’ll put it on for you.”

“What?”

“I’ll show you what I’ll look like in that and you can see for yourself why it has to be you.”

“Brenda can we not talk about your boobs for one conversation? Please?” Sharon asks, rubbing her forehead. 

“It’s going to be okay,” Brenda says. “It won’t be you. People know it’s not the real you. And think of those women we’ll be helpin’.”

“I’m going to go get some work done,” Sharon says. “Can I leave all this here?” 

“Of course,” Brenda says, though her office looks like a dressing room at the end of a sale weekend already. “Cooper wants us back here and suited up by seven.” 

“I know,” she says, going out the door closest to the elevator. 

Brenda is surprised with how nervous she is on Sharon’s behalf. She’s never seen the woman so openly uncomfortable before. Brenda doesn’t mind undercover work, finds it relieving to be someone else for a few hours, but she supposes being nervous over Sharon is better than being nervous for herself. 

The day passes all too quickly for how quiet it is with most of her division loaned out and everyone getting ready for tonight’s operation. Julio is there manning the phones and a case that would have gone to Major Crimes ordinarily - two men killed at a hotel in the middle of a convention - gets shunted to Robbery Homicide. They might pick it up anyway, after tonight. If things go well. 

The sun starts to sink and Mendoza shows up first, then Cooper. They have footage of the warehouse from throughout the day. Trucks coming and going, bringing in booze, lights, chairs, stereo equipments. A few glimpses of Iosif Sokolav with a cell phone to his ear. 

When Sharon finally appears, a purse on her shoulder and a Starbucks cup in her hand, Brenda tells Cooper that he can keep using her office and picks up the bag she’d put their clothes in. 

Sharon follows her uneasily to the ladies room. 

“I brought shoes, and makeup,” Sharon says. 

“Good,” Brenda says. “Why don’t you do that first, then. Save the clothes for last.”

Brenda changes in the stall while Sharon leans over the sinks, peering into the mirror, laying on the eyeliner thick. The black dress is her own and she doesn’t feel too strange, though it’s shorter than what she generally wears to the office. She pads barefoot out of the stall, her work clothes balled up in her chest. She drops her clothes into the bag and glances up to the mirror. Meets Sharon’s eye. 

She’s got on more eye makeup than Brenda’s ever seen. Dark and smoky and her eyes a pale green. 

“You should do that thing where you pull your bangs up into a little bump,” Brenda says. “I’ve always found that real flatterin’ on you.” 

Sharon looks away, picks up a tube of lipstick. “All right.” 

Brenda’s shoes are silver platform heels but she thinks Sharon will still be a little taller when all is said and done. 

Brenda’s own makeup is in the office and she didn’t think, really about bringing extra from home. She keeps the basics here. A few tubes of lipstick, mascara, concealer. 

“Here,” Sharon says, handing her a gold eyeshadow. “This will be good with your skin.” 

“Oh,” Brenda says. “Thanks.”

Sharon takes her outfit, locks herself into the handicapped stall. 

Brenda adds the eyeshadow on with her pinky finger, uses Sharon’s mascara to coat her lashes an extra time. It’s a true black - Brenda tends to buy brown in deference to her lighter hair but she likes how everything seems to pop. She’ll leave her hair down. 

“God,” Sharon says from behind the metal door. “I don’t know.”

“Let’s see it,” Brenda says. 

Sharon comes out. The jeans are tight and the vest doesn’t quite reach the top of the jeans so she can see a little hipbone, some cleavage up above. Not too much, just a glimpse of a curve. Sharon’s dark eyes, her shiny hair. Her dark red lips. 

“Uh,” Brenda says.

“This is too much, way too much,” Sharon says.

"If you want to be noticed, it's perfect," Brenda says. "Sharon, you look beautiful!"

"I look like a tart!"

"Maybe, but it's hot. It works. It's good for the op." Brenda smiles. "I'll go get you my trench to wear out of here." 

Sharon reaches out and stops just short of touching Brenda's bare arm. 

"Thanks, Chief," she says. 

oooo

Sharon looks like a soccer mom in Brenda’s pink trench coat but wisely, no one says anything. Not about Sharon and her borrowed coat, about Brenda tugging down on her hemline, about Micki Mendoza in tiny shorts and combat boots, about Irene Daniels in a tube top, her skin covered in glitter. 

They get wired up - Buzz won’t look at her in the eye as she reaches down between her breasts to feed the line and she has to get Irene to help her secure the microphone pack beneath the band of her bra. Ann McGinnis has on jeans and heels and a t-shirt and has her hair in a ponytail.

“How come you get to still look like a cop?” Brenda complains to her and Ann only smiles.

“I’m not the worm on the hook, Chief,” she says. 

Brenda glances at Sharon who has her hand up her little vest, taping the wire against her skin. She stares up at the ceiling, perhaps pretending she’s anywhere but here and she looks nervous. She’d looked nervous at the warehouse, she’d looked nervous in the bathroom and she looks nervous now. 

Brenda chews the inside of her lip and makes a choice. Turns to Ann. “Tell Cooper that I borrowed Captain Raydor for a moment, tell him to start the debrief and we’ll be back in a jiffy.” 

“Sure, Chief,” she says. 

She walks over to Sharon and says, “Come with me, Captain.”

“We’re about to start,” she complains, glancing at Buzz who looks into his laptop for a moment and then gives her the thumbs up.

“It’ll just be a moment,” she says, and then turns to Buzz. “Remember you work for me, not them, you got it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. 

“Keep my secrets,” she says. He nods. 

Sharon follows her out, to the elevator, tying the ribbon sash of Brenda’s jacket around her waist. The jacket is a little tight in the shoulders on Sharon so it doesn’t completely cover her - Brenda can see skin between her collarbones, just the very top of her cleavage. 

They take the elevator up to the murder room. There are a few people still in the office, but no one says anything when Brenda walks over to Provenza’s desk and pulls open a drawer. Fishes out a bottle. Carries it into her office.

“What are we doing?” Sharon asks. 

“You,” Brenda says, “have got to relax.” 

“We’re still wired!” Sharon hisses.

“Buzz won’t tell,” Brenda says. “And I can’t have you like this, I can’t have it.”

“I’m not… I just have never…”

Brenda unscrews the bottle of whiskey as Sharon stutters, coloring just a hint in the cheeks. She’s embarrassed and she’s been embarrassed for the whole duration of this case but Brenda has only just now sussed out that it’s exactly embarrassment and not just nerves. She takes the empty coffee mug on her desk, already washed, and pours about a shot and a half in. 

Sharon takes it, peers down into the mug as if it were full of snakes, not booze. 

“I’m not much for brown liquor,” Sharon says uneasily. 

“You’ve nothin’ to be ashamed of,” Brenda says. “You look beautiful and all you have to do is follow my lead. Go where I go, do what I do. If we get separated, you make sure you can see another officer and if you can’t, break cover and scream into that microphone and we’ll get you help.” 

“You’re scaring me,” Sharon says.

“I’m preparing you.” 

Sharon stares a moment and then says, “You think they’re going to try to take me?”

No sense lying when she’d basically just asked for Sharon to trust her. So she nods. “I do.”

“Maybe I should stay out of it then,” Sharon says but then shakes her head. “No, if we actually want to stop these men, then I can’t.”

“Right,” Brenda says softly.

Sharon brings the mug to her lips and tilts her head back. Swallows everything Brenda poured her.

It feels almost obscene to watch her drink. When she tilts her head back, her neck is a long column, creamy white and Brenda watches the muscles in her throat work to swallow with parted lips. It’d been a lot easier to ignore Sharon’s beauty when she used up all her energy hating her, but working this case with her has made Sharon seem very human. And that makes it hard to hate her and when she’s not hating her, Brenda can see clearly things like the elegant line of her neck, the hair framing her face, the bright green eyes.

Shit, Brenda thinks. 

“Better?” Brenda asks.

“Disgusting, actually,” Sharon says. 

“Well,” Brenda says, screwing the lid back on. “Provenza.”

“Yeah,” Sharon says. “Can we go back now?”

Down in the briefing, they slip in not quite unnoticed. Will is there, gives them a dirty look. Fritz is there too and smirks when he sees her in her skimpiest black dress, dolled up like she’s fifteen years younger than she really is. She doesn’t get a chance to talk to him before the FBI leaves to get into position. It’s too early for the undercover officers to go to the party, but everyone else leaves to make sure everything is set up for when they arrive. 

The undercover beat cops will go in first, and then the seasoned officers like Irene and Kate and Ann and the overly enthusiastic Amy Sykes from SIS in heels that makes her quite possibly twice as tall as Brenda herself. 

Then, last, Sharon and Brenda. 

She thinks about what Ann said - Brenda isn’t used to being the worm on the hook and she doesn’t like the idea of dangling Sharon either, but if they can catch the Sokolav family in the act, they can save lives and that’s what she hangs onto as they all troop down to the parking garage. 

“My feet already hurt,” she says to Sharon because they’re both too quiet. “How you feelin’?”

“A little better,” Sharon admits. “Thanks.” 

“It’s all gonna be over before we know it,” she promises.

But it still seems to take forever. They park, they wait in the van. Buzz tests their equipment again just to be sure. Sharon complains she has nowhere to hide her gun and then is fussy when Brenda tells her she can’t have one. 

“May as well just clip your badge to your jeans,” Brenda mutters. But truth be told, she doesn’t like going in unarmed either. It’s what all the undercover officers are for, to keep an eye on them, to let them draw out the evil and then step out of the way. 

Finally, Sharon has to shed the borrowed coat and does so reluctantly. Brenda can’t help but stare at the sharp hip bones on display and her long, bare arms. Sharon puts on fresh lipstick in the side mirror of the van. Brenda tucks her driver’s licence into her bra and hands Sharon a few twenty dollar bills.

“For the cover,” she says. 

“How come I have to-”

“Because I don’t have pockets,” Brenda says. Sharon takes the money and shoves it in her back pocket. “Okay. You ready?”

Sharon nods, though even that simple gesture is unconvincing. Brenda reaches out, snags her fingers. She feels Sharon stiffen and for a moment start to pull away, though she doesn’t. 

“We’re just going to go take a look around, get a drink, dance. Keep an eye out for any of the Sokolavs, keep an eye on Irene and Ann. And stay with me, okay?”

Sharon nods and says, “Okay.”

And she squeezes Brenda’s fingers. 

Brenda squeezes back.


	3. Chapter 3

Brenda looks around and feels that bad feeling in her chest settling down into the pit of her stomach. She feels old. Most of the people look college aged which makes sense - the flyer said 18 and over. When they’d paid their cover, a huge bouncer had stamped their hand ‘Over 21’ and also given them bracelets made out of glow sticks. Brenda had gotten a green one - Sharon a pink one.

Now, heading toward the bar that had been set up near the back of the floor space, Sharon says, “You want to swap?”

It’s hard to hear her over the beat of the music and Brenda shakes her head, confused. Sharon holds up her bare arm with the bright pink glowing circle. “Trade?” she says again.

“Oh,” Brenda grins. “Yeah!”

She can practically feel Fritz rolling his eyes from inside his FBI van. But she doesn’t care about that as she easily slips the green bracelet off and trades with Sharon for the pink one. 

Sharon leans into her ear and says, “Now all is right in the world.” 

“We should make a loop,” Brenda says, before Sharon pulls away. Sharon nods and this time, when Brenda slips her hand into Sharon’s, Sharon doesn’t flinch. Ultimately they head toward the bar but the make a wide loop on the way, peering into all the dark corners they can find. She can see their people here and there - standing at the high, round tables, there’s Kate in line for the bathroom and Irene is dancing with someone Brenda doesn’t recognize in the middle of the room. 

Brenda feels like her pulse is thudding in time with the dance music. She pulls Sharon along by their linked fingers. Ann and Kate are at the bar and Brenda slides up next to Ann, who doesn’t look at her. Brenda is proud of Sharon when she looks over everyone near them but doesn’t hesitate at all at the people she knows. 

“What do you want?” Brenda says loudly.

“Surprise me,” Sharon says, flashing her a smile. Brenda can’t help but smile back at her - Sharon is a better actress, perhaps, than she gives herself credit for. If she were this pleasant and smiley all the time, maybe people wouldn’t loathe her department quite so thoroughly. By the time she’d upended their professional life, they’d already be lost in her smile.

It takes a while to get a bartender’s attention and even when they do, there’s more waiting. Brenda looks up and notices that the catwalk isn’t empty. That she can see several men up there, looking down on the undulating, neon adorned crowd. One of them, she’s almost certain, is Iosif Sokolav. 

And he’s looking right at her. 

She smiles up at him, before reaching over and brushing Sharon’s hair aside. Puts her mouth right up her ear and says, “They’re watching us from the catwalk.” 

Sharon turns to look at her, confused and then glances up. Looks back at Brenda. 

“What do we do?” she asks. 

“Nothin’,” she says. “Wait and see.” 

She can see Amy across the room glance up. Which means someone in the surveillance van has heard what Brenda told Sharon and relayed it through the earpieces. No earpieces for Brenda and Sharon, though. No guns. No kevlar. No wonder Taylor gave up command of this op without more of a fight. What is Brenda supposed to do? Taylor gets to sit in the van and call the shots anyway and if something bad happens, Brenda supposes she could hit someone with the heel of her shoe, but that’s about it. Scream for help. 

Why does have such an uneasy feeling about this?

She usually has the answers, is all, but this. Well, they’re going in pretty blind and this is a feeling she’s not used to. 

A bartender appears in front of them with a tray. Two shots. Two flutes of champagne.

“Oh, we didn’t order that,” Sharon says.

“Compliments of the house,” the bartender says, young and tan and buff. He grins at Brenda but doesn’t hang around to answer any questions. Ann and Kate have already moved away from them, close enough to watch but not enough to hear. Brenda picks up the flute and raises it up to the catwalk. 

Iosif Sokolav nods down at her. 

“I’m not sure we should drink this,” Sharon says.

“We don’t have a choice,” Brenda says, setting the flute down and picking up the shot. “Rude not to.” 

“I wish you hadn’t made me-”

“Hush,” Brenda says. She hands a shot to Sharon, holds up her own. “Look happy.” 

Sharon smiles at her, arching one eyebrow and brings the shot glass to her lips. Tilts her head back. 

Brenda drinks hers down too. 

Kind of tart, but cold and doesn’t even burn much going down. When she looks up again, the men on the catwalk are gone.

oooo

Sharon is a better dancer than Brenda ever would have imagined. Though she is doing a great job, Brenda can tell she’s uncomfortable but when they move to the dance floor, whatever it is in Sharon that is pinging a red flag in Brenda goes away. In fact, Brenda feels awkward next to her, like she’s somehow gangly and out of proportion despite being much more compact than Sharon. 

“Twelve years of ballet,” Sharon says when Brenda stops and stares. There’s too many people around them for Brenda to stay still for too long and Sharon tilts her head slightly, reaches out to touch her elbow. “Just move to the rhythm of the music. It’s not hard.” 

“I know it ain’t hard,” Brenda snaps sullenly as someone bumps against her, jostling her closer to Sharon. When they’d arrived, there were a fair amount of people already here, mostly girls. But now, later in the evening, there are a lot more men present than Brenda had really been expecting, though she can’t say why she thought they wouldn’t show up to a party with loud music, booze, and women. She feels more out of place than Sharon, feels like someone’s mother or aunt. Feels every line in her face, feels acutely the ache in the arches of her feet in these damn high heels. 

Sharon dances with her arms over her head, grins at a man who can’t be more than twenty-five, who is probably younger than Sharon’s own son. Spins and puts her back to Brenda, dances the rest of the song with the man. The boy, really, who keeps sending cocky glances to his friends, like he’s bagged himself a cougar. When the song changes - it doesn’t end, but slows down a little - Brenda slides up behind Sharon, wraps her arms around her waist and gets on her tiptoes to whisper into her ear, “Now, now, Captain.” 

She feels Sharon tense and shudder into her grasp. And when she starts to turn, Brenda loosens her grip but doesn’t let go. 

Here they are, face to face. 

Sharon leans in and nuzzles Brenda’s cheek a little, whispers, “They’re watching us. Four o’clock.” 

Brenda doesn’t, turn, trusts Sharon to be telling the truth. “I think we’re suppose to give ‘em something to look at.”

She tries not to think of the men in the van. She knows Taylor is in there, Cooper, her own husband is probably listening in. But she hopes her own division is still farmed out to other cases and aren’t any of the officers holding the perimeter around this god forsaken warehouse of bad ideas. She hopes Flynn and Provenza can’t hear their suggestive murmurers filtered through Buzz’s expensive speakers, can’t see the dark, shaky footage their camera’s relay. 

Sharon pulls her off the dance floor. Micki had told them that the best place to make a scene would be on the far side of the bar. Away from the dancefloor, nestled in between the tall tables and extra seating. There’s an illusion of privacy because it’s shadowed by the catwalk above and behind the speakers that drown out the dance floor, but in fact everyone there is visible from almost anywhere in the warehouse. 

This is where Sharon leads her, their hands tangled and sweaty. 

It’s not like Brenda has never kissed a woman before. She’d gone to her fair share of college parties, had gotten drunk with girlfriends and it had always started as putting on a show for the boys but occasionally had carried over to the backseat of someone’s car. But no farther than that. 

So this is like that, then. Putting on a show, folding long legs into the backseat of a Cressida to see exactly where an evening might take them. 

Sharon leans against one of the concrete columns, apparently waiting for Brenda to make the first move. Which is cowardly, maybe, but Brenda gets that this is probably easier for her than for her straight, Catholic, rule-obsessed colleague. She thinks she’ll have to ease Sharon into it, but when she steps up to her, Sharon grabs Brenda’s face and guides their mouths together.

Sharon might actually be a little drunk. 

Because Brenda can still taste champagne on her Sharon’s lips, soft and sweet. They just have to look engaged, so Brenda tilts her head a little, pressing her body into Sharon’s. Their closed lips slide and Brenda is surprised when Sharon pulls back a little and then presses in again, letting her hands fall from Brenda’s face, wrapping her arms around her instead. 

Brenda wants to hate it. Wants not to want the soft kisses, wants not to fill her nose with Sharon’s scent, not to feel bare arms tighten around her. But she can feel her pulse racing, can feel the slow heat start to pool and spread. She curls her fingers around Sharon’s waist, sliding them down until she feels the bottom on the vest and then the sharpness of skin over bone. 

And it’s Sharon, fascinatingly enough, who whimpers and then slides her tongue into Brenda’s mouth. 

_Please_ , Brenda thinks. _Please let her be drunk._ Because this is a complication her life does not need.

oooo

A particularly popular song comes on and everyone on the dance floor cheers. It’s enough to get Brenda’s attention, enough so that she tears her mouth away. Her back is against the concrete and she’s not sure when that even happened. She looks over Sharon’s shoulder and sees Micki watching them. She nods her head up to the catwalk where Brenda sees two men in suits looking right at her. 

“Brenda,” Sharon says, voice low and thick. “I have to pee.”

“Okay,” Brenda says. “Yeah. We should… we should take a break.”

There’s a line for the bathroom, Brenda can see it from where they are. And when they head toward it, Brenda feels wobbly and knock kneed and out of sorts. Forgets, for a moment, that none of this is real. The kisses or the clothes or even the party. Brenda realizes that this friendship she has struck up with Sharon isn’t even real, and that’s a sobering enough thought that she straightens up, pulls her dress down from where it has ridden up a little and leads Sharon to the end of the line with a firm hand on her back. Because tomorrow, even if this op is a bust, it’s just gonna be Chief Johnson and Captain Raydor, adversaries again, and if Will wants to keep running these stupid operations, then he can figure out how to do it without Brenda. 

The line moves, though not as fast as one might hope. They don’t talk because it’s too loud to hear much of anything, but she looks around and tries to find their people. Irene on the dance floor, the lights shining off her glittery skin. Micki over where they’d left her. Ann still hovering around the bar. That’s all she can see. Maybe that woman there, talking to the girl in the little denim shorts - that might be one of the patrol officers, but Brenda can’t say for sure. 

The bathroom is little, lit poorly with fluorescent lights and has two small stalls and one large one. The large one opens up first and Brenda pushes Sharon into it, waiting for the smaller one next to it. Brenda locks herself into it happily when it becomes available, careful not to upset her wire as she lifts her skirt and pushes down her panties. She hopes the guys in the van can’t hear her pee. 

When she wipes, she realizes that she’s wet. Really wet. That the crotch of her panties is soaked through. She holds in a groan, rolling her eyes at her own rotten luck and wipes again before pulling up the uncomfortable underwear and flushing the toilet with her foot. This is all so stupid. She’s married for one, and she doesn’t even like Raydor! There are things, perhaps, that are attractive about the woman. Individual things like auburn hair or green eyes or the rare combination of the two together. Pale skin and bony hips. The way she smiles only in little flashes, so if you see one, it’s like getting a special treat. Maybe she likes her round little nose, maybe she likes long, long legs. Maybe she likes the way she’d sucked Brenda’s bottom lip in between her teeth and worried at it.

But she doesn’t like Sharon. Not everything all put together into one stick-up-the-butt package, no matter how lovely the wrapping. 

She washes her hands at the sink, wedging herself in next to a girl applying fresh lipstick in the mirror. Another girl presses in past the line, crying. Brenda ignores this, steps aside and gives up the real estate in front of the mirror to look at the closed door of the large stall. She waits and waits but it stays closed. 

“Have you seen anyone come out of there?” Brenda asks the girl at the front of the line.

“No, she’s been in there forever,” she says. 

“Anyone?” Brenda asks, but no one answers and Brenda calls, loudly, “Sharon?”

Nothing.

She knocks on the stall and says, “Sharon, you all right?” Hears no reply. Brenda feels worry prickle along the back of her neck, throws caution to the wind and says, “Captain Raydor, answer me.” 

She peers under the stall door, getting on her hands and knees on the disgusting bathroom floor, but she can’t see feet. Just the white, porcelain base of the toilet. 

“Shit,” she says. “Shit. Commander Taylor, I need help in here. Repeat, I have an officer missing. Y’all get in here right now!” 

And since she’s already down on the floor, she ducks and rolls into the stall, ignoring the horrified gasps of the girls in line. She unlocks the door and opens it just in time to see Micki and Ann come into the restroom, shooing girls into the hall as they go. Brenda hadn’t noticed it when she’d all but shoved Sharon into the stall. The white wall and the door with a brass handle. The black sign on the door that says ‘Supplies’. 

“It’s only been a few minutes,” Brenda says. Ann tries the door but it’s locked so she draws a gun and fires two shots at the handle. Brenda mashes her fingers into her ears a little too late and they ring after the shots. She’ll have a headache for the rest of the night.

When the door opens, there’s no closet full of pink soap and toilet paper. Only a dark hallway and Brenda doesn’t know where it goes. 

oooo

Fritz hands her her purse the moment she steps outside and she puts it on her shoulder, feels instantly more herself. They’ve brought up the house lights, corralled all the employees of the party outside, separate from the complaining guests inside. Nothing looks more ridiculous than people standing in a well lit room covered in glow sticks. Even outside, where the light comes from yellow security lights and streetlamps, her own wrist looks dumb with the pink circle. She slips it off and tosses it into her bag. 

“There’s a perimeter set,” Fritz says. “We think they put her in a vehicle but they’ll get stopped before they can hit an onramp.”

“No one saw her?” Brenda asks. They’re walking toward the van which has pulled close to the building. 

“We sure didn’t,” Fritz says. “But I’m not sure about your guys.”

Brenda bangs on the back of the van and the door swings open. Taylor looks grim.

“What happened, Chief?” He asks it like it’s Brenda’s fault things went south, like she’s blown the op singlehandedly. 

“You tell me?” Brenda spits. “I don’t remember seein’ any door on any blueprints. Why didn’t you know about that?” Throws it right back into his face. After all, all Taylor has done so far is complain about Brenda and sit in the back of the van. It’s Brenda who has put herself in the line of fire, had coached a nervous Sharon into playing along, had dressed herself up and whored herself out in order to save human lives. Taylor can kiss her ass. 

“Looks like an illegal addition the Sokolavs added after they purchased this property in 2004,” Taylor says. 

“You don’t say,” Brenda mutters. 

“Hey you guys?” Buzz says, holding a finger to his ear, trying to hear through the earpiece. “The blockade outside the 110 ramp says they stopped a van, they think it’s the Captain.” 

“Well is it?” Brenda asks. 

“Hang on,” Buzz says. “The officer says there are four women in the back…”

“Four?” Brenda screeches. “You missed four?” 

“All of them are unconscious but… they think it’s Raydor.” 

“I’ll drive,” Fritz says. “Come on.” 

“No, I’m going in a black and white, it’ll be faster with sirens,” Brenda says. She can’t rest, can’t relax until she knows that Sharon is okay. Sharon is her responsibility tonight and this was exactly what she didn’t want to happen. 

The rational part of her brain disagrees with her, tells her this is what they’d wanted all along. For one of their own to get captured, for the kidnappers to be caught in the act so they could be swiftly brought to justice, a murderous empire toppled. The people of Los Angeles safe once more. It’s why they’d done all this nonsense in the first place. But now Brenda can see that it was too much, too expensive. Sharon’s life is worth more to her now. She’d meant to keep her safe and she’d failed. 

She grabs the elbow of a uniform and barks an order to take her to the blockade. He hesitates until she pulls her badge out of her bag and thrusts it into his face. “I am not screwin’ around, I mean now!” she says.

“Brenda!” Fritz calls, but she ignores him. She doesn’t even turn around or look back.

It’s chaos at the roadblock too. They can’t get that close because the whole thing is circled with black and whites but she can see a line of ambulances so that’s where she heads. She holds her badge high and people move out of her way because she’s terrified and mad and underdressed for the situation. Or over, depending on how one might view things. She sticks her head in the first ambulance and sees a young blonde woman getting strapped in. 

Another ambulance, another young woman, closer to Brenda’s own age which is upsetting. She sees Flynn, which is jarring but she’s swept with gratitude nonetheless. 

“Where is she?” Brenda demands. “Where’s Captain Raydor?”

“That one,” he says, pointing to a silent, but flashing rig that already has its doors closed. Brenda hurries over, bangs on the door. One of the paramedics opens it and looks at her.

“Cedars-Sinai, lady,” he says.

“I’m coming with you,” she says. She can’t see all the way in but she can see the woman, plastic tubing in her arm. Sharon’s jeans. 

“Sorry,” he says and reaches for the door but Brenda holds up her badge. “Who are you?” he asks.

“I’m her partner,” she says, climbing in which is no easy feat in her shoes. 

“You’re a Deputy Chief and you have a partner?” he asks, skeptically. 

“I did for this op,” she says, looking down at Sharon. She doesn’t look hurt, exactly, though Brenda can see that she’d obviously been through something. Her hair is messy, her wrist on the left still has duct tape on it. Brenda sits on the little bench and takes her hand. “They drugged her?”

“We’re not sure what with, so it’s not safe to wake her up, but her vitals are strong,” he says as the rig lurches forward. She reaches out and takes Sharon’s hand, the green glowstick bracelet overpowered by the light overhead. Brenda eases it around Sharon’s hand and off, putting it into her purse too. 

Her phone starts to ring and she jumps. Forgot she had it. A glance at the screen and she sees Pope’s name. 

“Johnson,” she says. The paramedic monitoring Sharon glares at her but she ignores him. “Yeah, I’m with her now. Cedars.”

“You’re still wired, you know,” Pope reminds her before she hangs up. 

“Shit,” she mumbles. She’s far enough from the van now that the camera still probably isn’t transmitting live footage, though it’s certainly recording. But the sound… that’ll transmit a surprising distance. She has to let go of Sharon’s hand to reach behind her and unzip her dress a few inches so she can dislodge the battery pack from under her bra. She doesn’t realize how much it had been hurting her until she wrestles it free but that’s any pain, she figures. Always the worst just before the moment it disappears. She yanks the pack hard and then reaches down the front of the dress, wincing as she peels the tape away and pulls the wire out. 

Shuts the pack off and looks up, where the paramedic is staring with his mouth hanging open.

“What’s your name?” she asks. 

“Um, Calvin?” he says.

“Calvin,” she says. “Watch her, not me, okay?” 

“Oh,” he says. “Yes, ma’am. She’s stable.” 

They don’t let her past the emergency room when they take all the women in, no matter how hard she waves her badge. 

“Someone will be out to speak with you shortly,” a nurse tells her firmly. And then she’s just left standing there in her painful shoes and her short dress that is half unzipped and she’s all alone. And she realizes she’s scared. She’s totally scared. 

It doesn’t take long for people to show up - Taylor and Pope and most of her division. Not Julio - he’s gonna be mad when he realizes everything that he missed because Brenda had benched him over paperwork. 

“I don’t know,” Brenda says over and over again when people ask. “They sedated her but they said she was stable.”

She’s been there almost forty-five minutes when Fritz shows up with a change of clothes for her and her little white sneakers. 

“Oh my god,” she says. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he says. “I know exactly what kind of night you’ve had.”

She takes the plastic grocery bag full of clothes and her purse on her shoulder and goes down the hall to the restroom. Can’t make herself go into the handicapped stall even though it’ll give her the most room. No, she wedges herself into a small stall and takes off her shoes first thing, the cold floor of the hospital bathroom a relief on her bare feet. She gets the zipper the rest of the way down and lets the dress fall to the floor. Rests her head against the hard laminate of the stall door and stands for awhile in her underwear. Takes three slow deep breaths and feels everything hitch on the last one, tears threatening to spill over. 

But no, that’s just a bad idea and so she straightens up, swallows all of that nonsense down and steps out of the circle of the dress. Reaches in for what Fritz brought her. Blue jeans and a green t-shirt, her beige sweater. The sweater must have been an afterthought because it looks god awful with the green but she puts it all on anyway, even the little socks. She realizes with a start that they’re Sharon’s socks, the same ones from earlier in the week, laundered and balled up and stuffed into her bureau drawer by her domestic minded husband. 

She shoves everything into the bag, steps into her shoes and unlocks the stall door. Looks at her reflection. She looks tired and every bit her age. She wets a paper towel and wipes under her eyes before washing her hands and rummaging through her bag for some gum and some lipstick. 

Both the bracelets glow softly within.

Andy will have gum, she reassures herself. Andy always has gum.

oooo

Fritz sits next to her on one of the seats while she waits, her fingers tucked between her knees. 

It occurs to her, now, to ask about the Sokolavs. 

“FBI custody - we got Iosif and Marat, though Peter was nowhere to be found.” 

“Pasha,” Brenda corrects absently. “You won’t get him easy.”

“No,” Fritz agrees. “But this… this was worth it. You did good work.”

Brenda presses her lips together. “I guess.”

“And they said she’ll be fine. So why don’t you let me take you home?” 

“I want to stay until she wakes up,” Brenda says and not for the first time. She wishes he wouldn’t push it. “You can go home if you want.”

He shakes his head, rubs his face. Brenda has no idea what time it is but the sky outside is still dark. She glances at Fritz’s wrist, but can’t see the face of his watch, looks up around for a clock on the wall. It’s just after two and she’s tired. 

“Do you think you could maybe get us some coffee?” she asks. 

“Sure, honey,” he says. She digs in her purse for her wallet, but he waves it off, heads toward the elevators. She hopes that the doctor will come out and tell her that Sharon is awake while Fritz is gone but that doesn’t happen. He comes back with two styrofoam cups with lids and the liquid inside is scalding and doesn’t have enough sweetener in it for her taste but she gulps down mouthfuls of it anyway. The roof her her mouth tingles with hurt. 

“Can I do anything to help?” Fritz asks. 

“I just hate waiting,” she complains. “I just want to talk to her for a minute is all.”

“Are you sure they’re even going to let you in? You’re not family.” 

“Someone has to take her statement,” Brenda says hotly, having not considered that at all. 

“Has anyone taken your statement?” he asks. 

“Technically I may have left the scene but… I was wired so… everyone knows what I know,” she says. “It’s all a mess, anyway. This whole thing is mishandled and haphazard.” 

“That I agree with,” Fritz says. And then, after a pause. “Raydor’s a better actress than I would have thought.”

Brenda thinks maybe he means the kiss, that maybe they should talk about it while they’re spooling out time like endless thread but he doesn’t say anything else and she can’t talk about it, doesn’t even know how to begin to try.

She does get to see Sharon in the end, because Sharon asks for her. Fritz doesn’t come in the room with her and Brenda makes the uniformed officer wait outside the door. He can take her statement when Brenda’s done. 

Sharon is sitting up in the bed when Brenda comes in, forcing a smile and says, “Hey.”

“Chief,” she says, forcing a smile. 

“How are you feeling?” Brenda asks, stopping halfway between the door and the bed, suddenly unsure.

“Groggy and a little sore but… I think, fine?” She shakes her head. “There were other girls, I understand. They’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Brenda says. “Yeah. Three others but they’re all… fine. You all didn’t get very far so… Pope is pleased, anyway. The FBI took care of the arrests.” 

“Good,” Sharon says. “No one has come in to take my statement yet.” 

“There’s someone outside,” Brenda says. “But there’s no rush. You can talk to me first.”

She nods again. She’s in a hospital gown, her hair down and her makeup only remnants, now. “Will you sit?” Sharon asks, pointing to the chair.

Brenda can do that. She even drags the chair over to the side of the bed and sits. “I’ll have someone run you some clothes over in the morning,” Brenda says. 

“There’s no reason for me to spend the night here,” Sharon says. “I’m fine.”

“Night’s half over now, may as well,” Brenda says. 

“I thought since you were here… I thought you maybe could take me home if I discharged myself,” Sharon says. 

Brenda bites her lip. 

“I don’t think I could sleep anymore anyway. Apparently they gave me a sedative. I don’t… I locked the stall door, felt something sharp in my arm. The rest… is a blur. Mostly… just waking up here,” she says. “Not much of a help.”

“Sharon,” Brenda says. “I’m sorry I… I’m sorry they got to you.”

“Sorry?” Sharon asks, her forehead wrinkling in confusion. “That was the whole point!”

“Still,” Brenda says. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

Sharon waves away the apology. 

“You did great, though,” Brenda says. “Best undercover dancing I’ve ever seen.”

“You look exhausted, Chief,” Sharon says. It’s an awkward change of subject, a clumsy effort to lead Brenda away from talking about what they’d done. “Maybe you should send that officer in here.”

“Okay,” Brenda says. “I’ll go talk to the nurse about your discharge papers.” 

“Thank you,” Sharon says. “Thanks.”

oooo

“Brenda, I have to be at work in five hours,” Fritz says. “How long are we supposed to wait?” 

“She’s finishing her statement and then they’ll discharge her,” Brenda says. “Not much longer.”

“Shouldn’t someone call her family or something?” he asks. 

“I think her kids don’t live nearby,” Brenda says, though she doesn’t know that for sure. She thinks about all the things about Sharon she doesn’t know. Thinks about how what Sharon tastes like when she kisses her isn’t one of them, anymore. “Take the car, I’ll get the black and white to take us back to the station and drive her home myself.” 

“No,” Fritz says. “No. We’ll wait.”

It’s another forty minutes before they wheel Sharon out in her jeans and her vest. Brenda shakes her head, mortified, and unties her sweater, taking it off and handing it to her. They have to wait until she’s at the doors, wheeled by a bored looking guy in his twenties, before she can stand up and put the sweater on. She doesn’t even offer token resistance which is telling. Just ties the belt and lifts her hair out from under the collar, wincing just a little. 

“Thank you,” she says to Brenda. “And to you, Agent Howard.”

“Our pleasure,” Fritz says. Brenda glances at him but doesn’t contradict. Fritz can be a really good and thoughtful man, though those attributes start to slide when he’s tired. He gets edgy and impatient. Banging cupboard doors, the dishes rattling and the cat slinking away. That’s the Fritz only she ever sees. 

It’s this edgy Fritz she’s sensing now as he looks over Sharon in his wife’s favorite sweater. “You don’t have a purse or anything?” 

“Oh,” Sharon says. “I suppose all that is still at the office. If you drop me there, I can drive myself home.”

“Forget it,” Brenda says exhaustedly. “We have a guest bed. I’ll take you in the mornin’.”

“Chief-”

“Sharon, please, please, please don’t argue with me about this, please,” Brenda says. “Come on. Let’s go.” 

Fritz leads them down the sidewalk toward the parking garage and Sharon looks unsure but Brenda just shakes her head. It’s not worth it, the token argument, and anyway Brenda will feel better she can see Sharon in the morning, wholly herself and uninjured. When they get to the car, she offers to drive but Fritz just rolls his eyes at that notion, though Brenda is perfectly capable of getting them home. She gives the front seat to Sharon, crawls into the back of the big SUV and slides down on the leather seats until her feet are tucked under Sharon’s seat. She watches Fritz glance back at her in the rearview mirror, she watches Sharon sit as straight up as possible, her hand gripping the door. 

No one bothers with small talk. 

When they pull into the drive, Brenda hops out first, hurries ahead to unlock the door, bounding up the back steps so they’ll enter through the kitchen and not through the front. She can hear Fritz on the stairs first, heavy, trudging footsteps, and then Sharon’s lighter ones. 

She scoops up the cat the moment she gets the door open. Fritz doesn’t look at them as he passes by, but Sharon smiles a little at Joel.

“He’s always tryin’ to escape,” Brenda says, which isn’t true so she’s not sure why she says it. He only greets them at the door like this when they’ve been gone for longer than normal and he’s hungry. Still, she kicks the door closed behind her and sets Joel on the floor where he leans against her leg and meows. 

“I’m going to bed,” Fritz says. “Captain, I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Thank you, Agent Howard,” she says. 

Fritz closes the bedroom door behind him a little harder than normal and Brenda wonders if she’s even welcome in there at all.

“Here you are,” Brenda says. “In my house. Twice in one week.”

“Uh,” Sharon says. “You made me come here.”

“I’m not… sayin’ it’s bad,” she says. “Anyway. Um, are you hungry? I’m hungry.” 

“I guess,” Sharon says. Which, from her, is as good as a yes. But she tucks her hands in the tiny pockets of her tight jeans, a struggle, and says, “Brenda you’ve got to be wiped out. You should go to bed.”

“I’m fine,” Brenda says. “Not my first all nighter with this job.” 

She hides in the refrigerator for a moment. It feels like she hasn’t been home in ages but there’s the leftover pizza from last night, there’s three apples in the drawer, there’s half a gallon of milk. 

“Cold pizza? Sandwiches? Breakfast. We got eggs, I think,” she says.

“Can I warm up the cold pizza?” Sharon asks. 

Brenda crinkles up her nose. “I guess I won’t stop you.” She pulls out the box. “Microwave is over there, plates to the right of the sink. I’m gonna go find you something to sleep in and a toothbrush if we’ve got one.”

“Bless you,” Sharon says. 

Brenda doesn’t dare go into the bedroom, instead, she veers into the laundry room where she knows there’s a load wrinkling in the dryer. She pauses to shake some food into Joel’s bowl and then she digs through the dryer, pulling out a soft pair of shorts edged in lace and a Falcon’s shirt, bright red, but fitted and comfortable from years of washing. She only ever sleeps in it, unless she packs it when she goes home to wear on Thanksgiving while her brothers are all screaming at the TV. 

There’s one fresh toothbrush under the sink and it’s neon orange and green which is why it’s the only one left in the package. She wrinkles her nose at it and pulls it out. Caries her bounty back to the kitchen where Sharon is sitting at the table with a slice of pizza on a plate in front of her and she’s plated one for Brenda too. She’s even found glasses and filled them with ice water. 

“Thanks,” Brenda says, setting the things down at the other end of the table and slipping into the empty seat. It’s a mistake because as soon as she sits, she’s tired. But she picks up the pizza anyway, still cold, and takes a bite. Sharon takes a much smaller bite, sets her slice back down and looks at Brenda.

“I’d like to talk about something,” she says. 

Brenda feels her shoulders tense. “Okay.”

“About my behavior, tonight,” Sharon clarifies. 

“You behaved exactly like you were suppose to,” Brenda says. “No need to discuss it.”

“That’s not entirely true.” And here, Sharon glances down and then back up again. Brenda thinks maybe she was looking at her mouth, but she can’t be sure. Then she looks at Sharon’s mouth. She can’t help it. 

“It’s okay,” Brenda says. 

“I think, perhaps, we figured out the reason it’s been so difficult… to… maintain a friendship,” she says carefully. 

“Can we talk about this in the morning?” Brenda asks. “I will talk about it, but not right now.”

Sharon presses her mouth together but nods. “Fine.”

Brenda lets her have the bathroom first, makes sure the guest bed is made up and gets Sharon settled before brushing her own teeth and stripping down to her underwear in the bathroom. Pads mostly naked to the laundry to get the big t-shirt she’d seen in the dryer. Takes off her underwear and bra and drops them in the open washer, pulls on a fresh pair of panties and the shirt. 

She pauses outside the closed guestroom door for a moment and listens hard. She’s not sure what she’s listening for - snoring? Tossing and turning? A suppressed whimper? But she hears nothing at all. 

Fritz doesn’t even stir when she climbs into bed.


	4. Chapter 4

Brenda oversleeps, wakes up to her bedroom sun-drenched and warm. Fritz is long gone, off to work. She remembers, a little, his leaving. She remembers hearing him come out of the bathroom, the sound of him holstering his gun, the kiss on the forehead she got and then the house settling back into quiet. 

She sits up, too hot for the covers and kicks them away. Goes into the bathroom to pee and brush her teeth and look critically at herself in the mirror - bags under her eyes and frizzy hair. When she goes back into the bedroom, she can hear a noise from the kitchen and she remembers.

Sharon. 

She hurries out, aware that she’s a terrible hostess even when she remembers that she has a guest. Poor Sharon, out of place and trapped here. She sees Sharon standing at the sink, looking out the window. She’s standing on her toes, stretching out the muscles of her legs, bare all the way up to the lacy trim on Brenda’s shorts. Sharon is still wearing Brenda’s favorite sweater, though it hangs open like a robe, the stretched out belt ends dangle loose by her knees. Everything she’s wearing belongs to Brenda.

Brenda feels a sharp pang, like a knife sliding in easy. She knows this image will torment her for a long time to come. The morning she woke up to Sharon, the way it’ll never happen again. The light in her hair, the way she sinks down off the balls of her feet, her heels touching the floor, her hand moving to her hip. 

“See anything good out there?” Brenda asks, once she has as much detail committed to memory as possible. 

Sharon spins, looks contrite like she’s been caught. 

“Your neighbors across the street are having a fight in their driveway,” she says guiltily. 

“Oh, that happens a lot,” Brenda says. “I miss the morning fights usually, but I see him come home with flowers at least once a week.” 

“Smart,” Sharon says.

“Eh,” Brenda disagrees. “Just the little roses. You know, like you can get at the gas station?” 

Sharon wrinkles her nose up.

“I don’t think he can afford anything else at the rate he buys them,” Brenda says with a laugh. They fall into silence and Brenda shifts her weight from one foot to another. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” Sharon says. “I have some bruises I don’t remember getting, but not too bad.” 

“You want some coffee?” Brenda offers. “Breakfast? A shower?”

“All three, if you have them,” Sharon says. 

Brenda smiles. “Which one first?”

“Coffee,” she says. “Then shower.”

“Good choice,” Brenda says. “Between you, me, and the gatepost, most days I take my coffee to the shower with me and set it right there on the window ledge.”

Sharon smirks, rolls her eyes. “Will I find a stash of chocolate in there, too?”

“I ain’t sayin’,” Brenda says. She crosses the kitchen, grabs the coffee pot. There’s still coffee in there, not enough for a full cup and cold. Leftover from early this morning by Fritz, no doubt. She pours it into the sink. Sharon doesn’t step out of the way, so Brenda brushes up against her as she rinses the pot out, swirling the water around and dumping it, filling it up again with water cool and clear. 

She tosses the old filter into the trash by the door, pours the water in. She glances over at Sharon who is watching her with her hands up near her mouth, the sleeves of the sweater pressed into her lips. Like she’s shy. Or holding something in, maybe. Brenda doesn’t ask - she knows Sharon well enough now and whatever it is will surface eventually without Brenda hurrying anything along. Beans into the grinder and then that noise drowns out everything for a few seconds. 

A fresh white filter and she dumps the grounds in.

“That smell is one of my favorites,” Sharon says. “Right after the beans are ground. Before the coffee is made. It’s just… pure.”

“I like it too,” Brenda says. She pushes the button and the machine groans, waking up again. She turns back to Sharon, says, “I’ll get you a towel and something to wear back to the office.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Sharon says. “Both of our cars are still at work.”

Brenda stills, thinks that through. “Well, shit.” 

Sharon smirks. “We can call a cab.”

“That’ll cost a fortune,” Brenda says. “No, I’ll have one of the boys come pick us up.”

“Not Lieutenant Provenza,” Sharon says immediately. 

“Obviously not Provenza,” Brenda says. “But since you have such strong feelings on the matter, who would you like?”

Sharon tilts her head, her hair shifting and falling to the side. Has it always been this red? This glossy? Or is a mean trick of the sun in her cheery, bright kitchen? 

“Sanchez,” she says, finally. 

“Julio?” Brenda asks, surprised but pleased. He’s so quiet and so prone to anger otherwise, that she just assumes most people are terrified of him but Brenda adores him herself. She just thought she was the only one.

“Tao, would be an acceptable alternative if Detective Sanchez is otherwise engaged.”

“He’ll ask more questions,” Brenda warns.

“Yes, that’s why I said alternative,” she shoots back. 

The coffee machine gurgles.

“Towels,” Brenda says. Turns away, heads down the hall to the linen closet. She’s happy there are clean towels in there, happier still that there are two that match. Fritz had thrown out all of Brenda’s old threadbare towels when they’d finally gotten married. She pulls out two tan ones that had been given to them off the registry that Brenda had promised to fill with Fritz and then had always, somehow, been out solving a murder. And now she has light brown towels. A set of dishes she doesn’t particularly care for. Cupboards full of appliances she has no interest in using. A whole perfect looking life that she has no idea how to live. 

Sharon has found the mugs when Brenda comes back with the towels against her chest. Brenda watches her pour the coffee, lift the lids off the little canisters on the counter until she finds the one with sugar. Brenda is about to tell her that she prefers honey, but that isn’t the truth. She takes honey; she’d stopped putting real sugar in a few years ago when she’d cut down on sweets. So she shuts up; Sharon pulls open drawers until she finds a spoon. She puts one spoonful into each mug and then adds one more to the mug on the left. Hesitates and adds a third before stirring the coffee. She sees Brenda when she turns to head for the refrigerator. 

“Milk?” she says, though she hesitates, afraid, maybe, that she’s made herself too at home. 

“Cream in the door,” Brenda says.

“You shouldn’t keep that in the door,” Sharon says pulling open the fridge and scanning until she finds the little carton of half and half. “The door is the warmest part of the refrigerator and it’ll spoil faster.”

“And a group of cockroaches is called an intrusion,” Brenda says. 

“Sorry,” Sharon says, letting the door close. “I can… come off like a know-it-all.” 

“I think you think you’re trying to help,” Brenda says. Sharon says nothing about that, just adds creamer to both cups and returns the carton of half and half back to the fridge, right in the door where it apparently doesn’t belong. She hands Brenda the mug and she has to put down the towels to take it. She sips it and it’s so good and sweet that she has to close her eyes against it, like all her blood is rushing around at once. “Good.”

Sharon smiles at her, one of those flashes. There and gone, hidden behind the coffee mug as Sharon dips her head to drink.

oooo

Brenda picks out a navy blue cotton skirt, something stretchy and unstructured, and a baby pink t-shirt for Sharon to borrow. Too casual for the office, maybe, but enough to get her in and out and home. While Sharon is by no means a large woman, Brenda knows that they are not exactly the same size and she doesn’t want to make an already strange situation worse by giving Sharon clothes that don’t even fit her. 

She leaves the clothes on guest bed and retreats back to the kitchen to lean against the counter and call Julio on the phone.

“Chief,” he says when he answers. “We all thought you weren’t coming in today.”

“Actually,” she says. “My car is still there. Do you think you could come pick me up at home?”

“Sure thing,” he says. “Now?”

“Oh,” she says. “How about an hour?”

“No problem,” he says. 

“Just you,” she says. “I don’t need a whole audience.”

“Um,” he says. “Got it.” 

She’s not sure why she didn’t tell him Captain Raydor is here because it’s not a secret. 

Joel yowls from the laundry room and Brenda sets her phone down. “Okay,” she says. “Breakfast. Breakfast for us all.” She knows Fritz already fed him, but gives him a little more anyway, running her hand along his back. He allows it for a moment and then dodges her, burying his face in his bowl, crunching happily. 

Brenda is cracking eggs into a bowl when she hears the shower shut off, doctoring them up a bit when she hears a door open, bare feet on the wooden floor of the hallway and then another door close. She pulls out a pan, sets it on the stove. She turns on the burner and then adds a little butter to the pan to melt as it heats up. 

She’s still stirring the eggs when Sharon comes out. Wet hair and barefoot still, but the pink - a color Brenda never sees her in - makes her seem like she’s glowing. Brenda just stares and stares.

“I’ll take over,” Sharon says, smoothing the borrowed skirt across her thighs. “If you want to shower.”

“Okay,” she says. 

The bathroom is still warm and the mirror fogged with steam except for one uneven square where Sharon has rubbed it away. And she’s all over this bathroom, Brenda realizes. From the water beading on the tile in the shower to the dark hairs caught in Brenda’s hair brush to the borrowed towels folded and damp on the lid of the closed toilet. Brenda strips, drops her clothes in the hamper on top of the little shorts edged with lace and the inside out red t-shirt. 

She gets the water as hot as she can stand it and rests her forehead against the shower wall.

“You’re fine,” she tells herself. “We’re almost through it now.”

It’s not until she’s out of the shower that she notices Sharon’s coffee mug, mostly empty, sitting on the ledge of the window and she wrings her hands, tries not to think of her back against a concrete wall. 

oooo

The kissing is completely accidental. They eat breakfast, they clean up the mess in the kitchen. They take turns in the bathroom, brushing their teeth. Brenda forgoes makeup outside of lipgloss and mascara. It doesn’t seem fair when Sharon doesn’t have any of her stuff here and her hair is drying in wild waves. 

Brenda exits the bathroom into the hallway instead of into the bedroom and Sharon is there, back against the wall, holding Brenda’s sweater to her chest.

“I wanted to make sure you got this back,” she says. “I know the affection you have for it.”

Brenda steps forward to take it and then it’s just like before at the club where the music thudded inside of her like a heartbeat, two hands pulling at a face, lips crashing together.

But it’s Brenda, this time, who pulls Sharon to her. And it’s Brenda, this time, who sticks her tongue into Sharon’s mouth. And it’s Brenda who presses their bodies together and it’s Brenda who doesn’t even notice her most favorite sweater falling right to the ground. 

Sharon tastes minty and addictive and Brenda presses up onto the balls of her feet, presses into Sharon as hard as she can. Her blood is rushing in her ears, her heart is hammering. Sharon pulls her mouth away but Brenda gets it right back because she hasn’t had enough. She wants to taste every bit, she wants to catch Sharon’s lips between her teeth, she wants to slide her hand up under that pink shirt and hold on tight to whatever she finds.

Sharon gets free again, says, “Stop, stop.” 

Brenda rests her head on Sharon’s shoulder, panting and embarrassed. Lowers her hands only to find Sharon’s arms are wrapped around her, that her knee has wedged between Brenda’s legs. 

“This is your house,” Sharon says after a few ragged breaths. “This is your life, Chief.” 

“I know.”

“Don’t set it all on fire just for me,” Sharon says, her hands tight on Brenda’s waist. 

She doesn’t tell Sharon that it’s too late, that the flames have been creeping in for some time. That she wakes up alone in her bed, Fritz asleep on the couch with the television on low. That when her husband looks at babies in strollers he gets a dreamy, far away expression and that when she looks at them, she thinks she might be sick. She doesn’t tell Sharon that she prays for murders on the weekends to get out of trips to the hardware store and to Costco, doesn’t say that staring across her dining table at her husband makes her feel achingly lonely, that she doesn’t know why she married him except for that when he asked, she had no idea how to say no. 

Because all of this isn’t about Sharon. Sharon is a surprise. 

“I can’t be your friend,” Brenda says, stepping back. Sharon drops her arms, doesn’t force Brenda to stay. 

“No,” Sharon says crossing her arms. “That would be an unreasonable request.” 

“I’m sorry that I-”

“No.” Sharon shakes her head. “It was… I mean, I… before it was just pretend but now it’s not.”

“I think you were right, at least,” Brenda says.

“About what?”

“About Pope not forcing us to work together anymore,” she says. 

Sharon reaches up, two fingers just brush her bottom lip. “For the best, probably,” she murmurs. 

Brenda leans over and picks up her sweater so she doesn’t reach out for Sharon again, holds it in front of her like a shield. 

Outside a car door slams and then, a moment later, footsteps on the stairs.

“That’s Julio,” Brenda says.

Sharon breathes out. “Thank god.”

oooo

The FBI comes a week later to debrief them. Brenda gets invited as operation commander. Cooper is there, Taylor too. She thinks maybe Sharon will be there but she isn’t and she can’t bring herself to ask why. She knows why - ultimately to Captain Raydor and her position in Internal Affairs, what happens with this case is irrelevant. She was just a borrowed body and she got saved. 

But Pope says, “You’ll let Captain Raydor know how everything turned out, right?” The briefing is over and they’re all dispersing and this stops Brenda short. 

She hasn’t seen Sharon since Julio dropped them off at work. Has thought about her only once every fifteen minutes or so over the last seven days. 

“If you wanted her to know, why didn’t you just let her sit in?” Brenda asks.

“She’s got a case,” Pope says. “You know how she gets about her seventy-two hours.” 

“Then you’ll probably see her before I do,” Brenda says. 

“Oh,” Pope says. “Maybe. It was my understanding that you’d worked out your differences.”

“She’s as uptight as ever,” Brenda says. “I’m just glad she’s not my problem anymore.”

Pope looks at her in consternation, his forehead wrinkled. “You’ll overlap again, I’m sure. Do yourself a favor and keep being nice to her. It’ll save us all a headache and now that I’ve seen that you _can_ work well together and get along, that is my expectation.” 

“Fine, fine,” she says. “You’re the boss.”

“I literally am!” Pope calls after her, but she ignores him and goes back to her office. 

It’s not until she’s at home, sitting on the couch with her feet on the coffee table and half a bowl of popcorn as company that she thinks about actually following Will’s order and telling Sharon about the briefing. Fritz hadn’t been there either, is still not home though it’s creeping on toward eight o’clock. He’s working some other case, she thinks, and remembers only vaguely him mentioning it. 

She picks up her phone, scrolls through her contacts until she finds Sharon's information. It seems rude to just call. Maybe it's too late, maybe it's too familiar when out of the office. So instead she sends a text message asking if Sharon is busy. 

Sharon calls her. 

“Hey,” Brenda answers and then tenses, heat flaring at her cheeks. She’s supposed to be telling Captain Raydor about the briefing, not calling Sharon to chat. 

“Hi,” Sharon says. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she says. “I just… I thought you might want to know about the Sokolav briefing.”

“Oh,” she says. “Well, Chief Pope caught me up this afternoon, but if you have some other perspective, I’m all ears.” 

“No,” she says, feeling foolish completely through now. “He just asked me to catch you up, so…”

“He probably figured since he saw me, he’d do it,” Sharon says. “Save you the trouble.”

Brenda snorts. 

“Save himself the trouble of you and I…” Sharon pauses uneasily. “Interacting.”

“It’s no trouble,” Brenda blurts. “I don’t mind interacting with you, Captain.”

Sharon chuckles low and dry. “Not anymore, you mean.”

“Sharon-”

“Brenda, don’t,” Sharon says. “You don’t have to say anything.” 

“I was only going to say,” Brenda lies, changing tactics in an effort to keep her on the line, “that you were good out there and if you want to keep shadowing my division, when your caseload allows, you’re welcome to. We can always use another body anyway. It’s no trouble.” 

“Really?” Sharon asks. 

“Yeah,” Brenda says. “I think you have a knack for problem solving and since we lost Daniels, we could use someone like you around.” She hesitates. “I could use someone like you around.” 

“Did Chief Pope order you to do this?” she asks.

“No!” Brenda says. “I thought… it seemed like to me that maybe you were looking for a way out of Internal Affairs, that’s all. There’s no way Will will let you transfer into my division at your rank, but you can certainly get some practical experience.” 

“I never said I was looking for a change,” Sharon says hesitantly. 

“No, you never did,” Brenda says. “But I can tell.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sharon sighs. “I’ve been in I.A. for so long, Pope is never going to let me out.”

“Any old person can follow rules,” Brenda says dismissively. “Not everyone can solve a murder. If that’s a skill you have, he’s not gonna let you waste it.” 

Sharon doesn’t say anything.

“Or maybe he’ll retire,” she adds. “And someone smarter will take his place.” 

“It’s not that I’m unhappy here, I just… feel like I could be doing more, you know?” Sharon sighs. “I wasn’t even going to be a police officer this long.”

“Really?” Brenda asks, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear. She catches sight of the scratch across the pale underside of her wrist, courtesy of her cranky cat, and seeing the angry red line makes it sting all over again. She presses the mark against her mouth and waits for Sharon to explain. Settles back into the couch, tucking her feet up under her. 

“I was going to go to law school,” Sharon says. “If you can believe that.”

“I can, actually,” Brenda says, feeling herself smile. “What happened?”

“Oh,” Sharon says. “I had two babies and my husband left.” She makes a hollow noise with her mouth, her tongue clicking against the roof of her mouth. “I was in no position to quit my job.” 

Brenda isn’t sure what to say here - she tends to do the leaving. Even with Will, married and leading her on, even then she’d had to be the one to cut the cord. He would have kept her on the side forever, probably. Even if his wife had eventually left him, he still would never have kept his promises to Brenda. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be left behind like that, can’t even imagine it with a baby on each hip. 

Sharon interprets her silence incorrectly and says, “Agent Howard is nothing like Jack.” 

“What was Jack like?” Brenda asks and she truly wants to know. Now that she has stopped fighting against Sharon, she wants to know everything she can about her, wants to gather each morsel of knowledge like foil wrapped chocolates in her drawer. 

“Handsome,” Sharon says. “Charming.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Brenda says.

“Unless he was drinking.”

“Oh.”

“And he was always drinking. And he always gambled when he drank. And he always lied when he gambled,” Sharon says, her voice flat. Like she has learned, with time, to distance herself from the hurt. It’s the same flat way that Fritz talks about his ex-wife. 

“So not ideal,” Brenda says.

“No,” Sharon says. “The best thing he did as a father is walk out on those kids. I’d never say that to them, of course.”

“Of course,” Brenda says. 

“You have it good with Agent Howard,” Sharon says, softly. “He’s not the type to leave. And you don’t have kids which means he’s not staying out of obligation.” 

“He’d love the obligation, frankly,” Brenda says. “I keep my birth control at work, just in case.”

Sharon laughs, a warm, velvet sound that is lush until it starts to peter out. “Seriously?” she says.

“Well, in my purse,” Brenda says. “Not that I think he’d really… but you know.”

“Kids aren’t for everyone,” Sharon says. But she doesn’t say it in the condescending way Brenda is used to, usually from older women looking at her like she’s defective as she holds someone’s baby out in front of her, little fat legs dangling in the air. She says it like it’s straightforward, practical advice. “It’s not like your career isn’t contributing to society in an important way.” 

“Yeah,” Brenda says. “Okay, so tell me about these kids of yours.”

Brenda has every intention of hanging up the phone before her husband gets home, but when she hears his key in the lock, she realizes that she and Sharon have been on the phone for well over an hour. The urge to lie swells hotly in her throat, and she can hear herself say _goodnight, mama!_ loudly in her head. If it were anyone else, she might, but Sharon is different. Sharon wouldn’t respect the lie. Sharon is already worried about Brenda and her husband. 

So Fritz comes in, seems surprised to see her awake. And Brenda swallows and says, “I’m going to let you get some sleep, Sharon.” 

“Oh,” Sharon says, because it is an abrupt end to a somewhat languid conversation. “Of course, Chief.”

“I’ll talk to you real soon,” she says. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Sharon says. 

Brenda tosses her phone aside, stands up from the couch, her knees aching from sitting curled up on the couch for so long. 

“Hi honey,” she says.

“Hey,” he says. “You’re still up.”

“Yeah, it’s not really that late,” she says, walking up to him. She kisses him, pats his chest. “How was your work thingy?”

“It went all right,” he says. “I didn’t think you remembered that was tonight.”

“Sure I did,” she says. “Did you get dinner?”

“We ate in the van,” he says. “Actually, I kind of just want to shower and go to bed.”

She nods, smiles again. “Okay.”

He tosses his keys into the bowl and reaches up to tug at the knot of his tie. Sets his briefcase down and heads for the hall before pausing and turning back to her. “Was that Captain Raydor?”

“Huh?” she asks. 

“Oh the phone.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Will wanted me to brief her on the FBI meeting today. About the Sokolavs?”

“At ten at night?” he asks.

“She had a thing all day,” Brenda says, lifting one shoulder. “You know how she is about deadlines.” 

“It’s good you’re giving her a chance,” Fritz says. “You can be awfully hard on people, Brenda.” 

It’s something she and Fritz have in common, but she keeps that insight to herself.

oooo

They pick up a case, a sticky situation with the daughter of someone high up in the Sheriff's department and a suspicious string of dead boyfriends, the most current being the son of some C-list reality show star. It’s a political nightmare and Brenda immediately calls Sharon’s office to see if she’s available to shadow. Sharon has to hang up in the middle of the conversation to take another call and then calls Brenda back a few minutes later.

“Pope just asked me to shadow your case,” Sharon says. Brenda can hear the smile in her voice. 

“Well, now I don’t want you,” Brenda says. “Never mind.” 

“Too bad,” Sharon says. “You’re stuck with me.”

“I’ll somehow manage,” Brenda says. “But if you’re here, I’m gonna put you to work. You can do more than just stand around and take notes.”

“Okay,” Sharon says. “What did you have in mind, Chief?”

“How about a little undercover?” Brenda asks with a grin.

It’s not much, really. She just needs Sharon to pretend to have a job that doesn’t exist. Some public relations position for celebrities - she tells Sharon to wear something designer, to look polished and tailored and beautiful. “Like one of them, not one of us,” she says. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” Sharon says. 

“Maybe this time, I get to poke around your closet?” Brenda says and she means it as a joke, but it’s a misstep and she knows it the moment she says it. Because Sharon hesitates. They’ve both worked hard to get past their actions undercover and the awkwardness of the morning after. And Brenda still feels… differently about Sharon, but she hasn’t pushed because after all, Sharon had been right to stop them. 

She expects to be gently chastised now and deservedly so. But Sharon says, “That might be helpful.” 

“Really?” Brenda asks, surprised.

“Well,” Sharon says. “I may have more experience in designer clothing and good tailoring, but you know a lot more about standing out.”

“Oh how I’ve missed your backhanded compliments,” Brenda says. 

“Mine?” Sharon says with a bark of laughter. “It’s amazing I managed to fit one in between yours.”

“Text me your address,” Brenda says. “I’ll come over after work.”

“Okay,” Sharon says.

“Okay,” Brenda says, her heart up in her throat.

oooo

Fritz calls right as she is pulling out of the parking garage. His voice gets filtered through the speakers in her car and she says, “Hey honey!” 

“Hi,” he says. “Brenda, I’m gonna be late again.”

“Everything okay?” she asks. Fritz’s job is tough and time consuming just like hers but the FBI is federal and they tend to clock out at six sharp and start again the next morning. It’s rare he works overnight, rarer still twice in the same week. 

“Yeah, just a time sensitive issue,” he says. “If I can’t come home, I’ll let you know.” 

“Be careful,” Brenda says and then thinks about how much she hates when people say that to her. “Be safe,” she amends. 

“I will,” he says. “Love you.”

“Bye now,” she says. 

She goes home first knowing he won’t be there. Feeds the cat, changes out of her suit, sweaty and stifling. She changes into a lighter dress, sandals to let her toes breathe, and remembers to grab Sharon’s daughter’s clothes and toss them into her bag. 

Sharon’s building is tall and imposing and somewhere Brenda would never, ever live. Too cold, too many people packed into one small space. Too expensive, surely. But she can see Sharon there, see how a high, well protected tower might suit her. 

It feels like the elevator ride up takes forever, plenty long enough for Brenda to talk herself out of knocking on the door and plenty long enough for her to talk herself back into it. It’s a long walk down the hallway, Sharon’s unit all the way at the end, on the corner, probably, which is nice. Brenda stands outside the door for a while, looking at the brass doorknob, looking at her own toes, looking all around, trying to decide what she’s going to do once she gets in there but then several doors down, one of Sharon’s neighbors steps into the hallway, so Brenda knocks so she doesn’t look like some sort of criminal casing the joint. 

Sharon answers with a peculiar looking smile. Too big, she holds it for too long.

“Come in,” she says, steps aside and then says, “Brenda.”

“Thank you,” she says. “Sharon.”

So she leaves her rank at the door.

oooo

Sharon is exactly the kind of woman Fritz should have married, Brenda thinks uneasily. Her space is cohesive and immaculate. Floors swept, rugs clean, surfaces gleaming and free of dust. Her bed is made in her bedroom; in her closet, all her clothes hang on matching, wooden hangers. She doesn’t let expensive garments bend the cheap wire hangers from the dry cleaners, bits of paper and plastic littering the closet floor. Brenda studies the contents of Sharon’s closet intently. It’s organized by function, not by color or length or style. Obviously one half is for work - clothes with structure and lining, an impressive professional wardrobe built over a long and industrious career. And then things that are fancy, but not for work. Long dresses, bright colors, spaghetti straps. Things that remind Brenda of her sister-in-law, Joyce, who has the coloring for some of these pieces. Dark hair, fair skin. Things one might wear to church or on a date. There’s a row of shelves that have shoes and some folded up jeans and bulky sweaters. Brenda reaches out to feel the fabric of a deep purple sweater. Cashmere. A button on the sleeve that looks like a little pearl. A pair of cherry red wedges, black ballet flats that if Brenda had seen at the store, she would have bought two pairs. Classic, comfortable, chic. 

Sharon watches her from the door of the walk-in, leaning against the wood of the frame with her hands tucked behind her. She tilts her head a little and says, “What do you think?”

Brenda stops thinking about ballet flats and starts thinking about how she shouldn’t kiss Sharon. It would be easier if she hadn't already, if she wasn’t exactly sure of what she was missing. 

She’s definitely missing something. Things haven’t felt right for a while now and Sharon is a symptom of that. Fritz working more, Fritz changing his behavior. Brenda not quite caring enough to ask. Her first marriage had ended suddenly in a big, messy disaster so she can see why she’s missed the signs in this one. It has been such a slow decay. 

“What if I weren’t married?” Brenda asks. 

Sharon frowns, tucks her hands into the pockets of her slacks. “I meant about the clothes,” she says.

“I know but… I’m just… what if we’d done all this? The undercover, the other day at my house. This right now. What if… is there anything else holding you back?” 

“There doesn’t have to be anything else,” Sharon says. “This one thing is plenty big enough.” 

Brenda, knowing better, says, “Just pretend.” 

“There are reasons,” Sharon says. “We don’t like each other very much.”

“Some people need a bit of friction,” Brenda says.

“You outrank me,” Sharon points out. 

“I’m not your immediate supervisor,” Brenda says, tucking herself into the doorway, leaning against the other side of the frame. A mirror image. Space between them, but measurable in inches. Not more than an arm’s length. 

“I’m not gay,” Sharon says.

“Not real straight, either, I think,” Brenda counters. Sharon rolls her eyes, smirks at herself. 

“A little late in life identity crisis. Just what I need.” She shakes her head. “What would you like me to wear, Brenda?”

“Oh,” Brenda says, turning her head back to the clothes. “The ivory dress.” She reaches out, pulls the dress from the hanger. It’s tight, beautifully made. “Heels. Expensive jewelry. You’ll do fine.”

“How should I do my hair?” Sharon asks.

“Ironed flat, I think,” she says. “But it always looks beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Sharon murmurs. She looks at Brenda’s mouth. Makes an expression of pained desire. “I guess your work here is done.”

“You know the trick about undercover, right?” Brenda asks. Sharon shakes her head. “You’ve got to practice. It’s a skill like any other.” 

“Brenda,” Sharon says. 

Brenda shakes her head, steps forward until the space between them becomes negligible and then disappears completely. 

“It’s just practice,” Brenda says softly. “Just pretend.”

Still, she pauses just before their lips brush. She allows Sharon to close the gap and there’s a few long seconds where Brenda isn’t convinced that she’s going to but then she seems to sag a little and pushes into Brenda. Lips and body and everything all flush. 

Brenda is a selfish lover. She always has been. She gets drunk on pleasure and worries only about what she needs, her own satisfaction. She can’t count the number of times she’s abandoned a blow job halfway through to climb up a man and sink down upon what she wants. How many dalliances in the backseat of cars had ended up with her hand down her own pants instead of someone else’s, chasing pleasure with hooded eyes and clenched teeth while whoever was with her just stopped and stared. 

But all Brenda wants, all the pleasure she currently desires, is to get her hands on Sharon. She slips her hands up under her blouse and Sharon pants into her mouth. Brenda runs her fingers along soft skin, hipbones, ribs, cups a breast. 

Sharon tips her head back, groans. Brenda chases her, recapturing her lips. Uses both her hands to work open the clasp of Sharon’s slacks, ease the button from its hole. Two fingers to slowly lower the zipper. 

“I…” Sharon says against Brenda’s mouth. “I don’t know.”

Brenda drags her tongue along Sharon’s lower lip, kisses her chin. “I can always stop. You just say stop and I’ll stop.” 

Sharon nods, closes her eyes. Brenda can see pale skin, the lacy top of plum colored underwear. She slips her fingers in, goes real slow. Savors the softness of the heated skin, the tactile sensation of coarse hair, the incredible warmth of Sharon’s desire. Sharon gasps, jerks against Brenda’s hand. 

It’s been a long, long time since Brenda has thought about doing this but some desires never quite fade away. She rubs, gets her fingers good and lubricated. Doesn’t bother with penetration - as much as she longs to feel Sharon all around her, that’s just a logistical nightmare that would require Sharon to move to the bed, to take off her clothes and Brenda might lose her. No, she just focuses on bringing Sharon as much pleasure as she can, rubs soft circles while Sharon whimpers. She lets her head rest on Brenda’s shoulder, spreads her feet a little to try to give Brenda more access. Brenda moves her fingers a little faster as a reward and Sharon turns her head, presses her mouth against Brenda’s neck with a deep, “Ohhh.” 

“Good,” Brenda coos. “You’re doin’ so good.” 

She gives Sharon a pinch which makes her cry out, makes her lift her head and crush their mouths together, makes her thrust her tongue against Brenda’s. Brenda pinches again, pinches long and hard and Sharon’s hips grind against her hand and she’s just soaking wet, now, just liquid where Brenda is touching her. Brenda switches back to rubbing, hard circles where Sharon pulses against her. Sharon turns her head, pants hard against Brenda’s cheek. She can feel the plastic frames of Sharon’s glasses, still sitting on her face. Can smell the scent of sex and shampoo, can taste Sharon’s dark lipstick on her own mouth. 

Sharon sucks in a breath, it hitches and she tries to breathe in again, exhales a low and desperate moan. 

“Uh huh,” Brenda encourages. “Tell me. Tell me it’s good.”

“It’s…” Sharon says. “It’s so… so good.” It comes out like a sob. 

“Well, come on then,” Brenda says, her voice barely a whisper. 

“I need…” Sharon says, but she doesn’t say anything else. 

“This?” Brenda says, rubbing faster. Sharon whimpers. “Or this?” Brenda pinches her again, hard, tweaks the slippery, swollen bud and Sharon goes rigid against her. 

Now, only now, does Brenda plunge her fingers into Sharon’s deep, dark wetness just so she can feel her pulse around her. It’s not easy, puts a kink into her wrist and the elastic from Sharon’s underwear digs into her skin, but oh, it’s more than worth it. Sharon comes against her hand, gasping and moaning and then, finally, going boneless against her, breathing hard into Brenda’s hair. 

“Very nice,” Brenda says. “Very believable. Well worth the practice, don’t you think?” 

Sharon snorts, a languid little laugh, and clenches hard around Brenda’s fingers.

“Whatever you say, Chief,” Sharon mumbles, eyes closed. 

oooo

Brenda unlocks the door, quiet and alert, but the house is empty except for the cat, padding from the living room to the kitchen to see who is home. No husband, then, to witness her coming home, slinking toward the bathroom, leaving her purse and sweater along the way, turning on the shower even though she’d never even taken off her clothes. She still feels like maybe she needs to wash away the evidence. 

She stands under the hot water and thinks about what she has done. How she’d manipulated Sharon into giving her what she’d wanted, how Sharon had allowed it, her own desire edging out her morals. That’s what being friends with Brenda did to a person. She’d learn that thoroughly soon enough. 

She touches herself, swiftly, efficiently, her own tight groan bouncing off the tile and then she stands as the water rinses her clean. Soaping up and washing it all away. 

Fritz doesn’t come home while she’s in the shower, he’s not home by the time she goes to bed and when she wakes up in the morning, he’s still not back. 

She dresses, fixes her hair, puts on lipstick a shade darker than usual.

At work, she keeps one eye on the glass walls of her office, jumping up when Flynn waves at her, indicating that the minor celebrity is on their way up. She texts Sharon who replies with, “ _On my way._ ”

Sharon has to only ride the elevator down a few floors, so she beats their celebrity to Major Crimes. Brenda waits in the hall for whoever emerges first and it takes her a moment to realize that the elevator reveals Sharon and not some beautiful, famous star. Brenda’s mouth falls open, like she’s a cartoon but that ivory dress is a gift from god and it makes her hair seem brilliant against her pale skin. She’s not wearing her glasses, her hair is glossy and straight, and even though Brenda knows those are false eyelashes, they still make the green of her eyes pop even more. 

“Where are they?” Sharon asks, stepping carefully over the threshold of the elevator in her towering black heels. 

“Uh,” Brenda manages.

“What’s the matter?” Sharon asks. 

“You look… really nice,” Brenda says. 

Sharon rolls her eyes. “This is exactly what you told me to do!”

“Yeah, but…”

“I went and got a blow out at six am this morning, I’m tired, I’m uncomfortable, and you and I seriously need to sit down and have a frank talk about some things,” Sharon says, pointing at her. 

Brenda looks at her hand, the chain hanging off her wrist.

“Is that Tiffany’s?” she asks. “It’s pretty.” 

“Focus,” Sharon says.

“You’re so pretty,” Brenda says. 

“Chief,” Sharon says. “It’s just pretend.” 

The elevator dings, the doors part to show Provenza and Flynn standing in front of a woman in dark sunglasses looking at her cellphone. 

Sharon smiles and steps forward.

oooo

Sharon appears later, when most of her division has gone home except for Tao and Buzz, still holed up in the electronics room. Brenda is sitting at her desk, finishing up paperwork under the light of her desk lamp. Sharon knocks, Brenda looks up, gives her a small smile.

“You’re still here?” she says.

“I am,” Sharon says.

“You ready to sit down and have that frank talk, Captain, because I gotta say, if you’re looking for an apology for yesterday, you’re gonna be disappointed.” 

“No,” Sharon says. “No, I thought… since I’m still in costume as it were…” She trails off uncertainly.

“You’re looking for a… a debrief?” Brenda asks, feeling warm, feeling wary, feeling excited all at once. 

Sharon nods. “A debrief. Something like that.”

“Somethin’ like that,” Brenda echos. 

From somewhere inside Brenda’s big black purse, her phone rings out a jaunty tune. 

She pretends she doesn’t hear it since she’s already here, playing pretend. 

“Come on,” Sharon says. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Right behind you, Captain,” Brenda says and reaches up to turn off the light.


End file.
